MANTIC  AGE 


SAMUEL  FRENCH.  25  West  45th  St.,  New  York 


MRS.  PARTRIDGE  PRESENTS 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Mary  Kennedy  and  Euth  Haw- 
thorne. 6  males,  6  females.  Modern  costumes.  2  interiors. 
Plays  2%  hours. 

The  characters,  scenes  and  situations  are  thoroughly  up-to- 
ilate  in  this  altogether  delightful  American  comedy.  The  heroine 
IB  a  woman  of  tremendous  energy,  who  manages  a  business — a* 
•he  manages  everything — with  great  succesc,  and  at  home  pre- 
sides over  the  destinies  of  a  growing  son  and  daughter.  He* 
•truggle  to  give  the  children  the  opportunities  she  herself  had 
•nissed,  and  the  children's  ultimate  revolt  against  her  well-meant 
management — that  is  the  basis  of  the  plot.  The  son  who  is  cast 
for  the  part  of  artist  and  the  daughter  who  is  to  go  on  the  stag* 
offer  numerous  opportunities  for  the  development  of  the  comio 
possibilities  in  the  theme. 

The  play  is  one  of  the  most  delightful,  yet  thought-provoking 
American  comedies  of  recent  years,  and  is  warmly  recommended 
•o  »U  amateur  groups.  (Royalty  on  application.)  Price,  75  Cents. 


IN  THE  NEXT  ROOM 

Melodrama  in  3  acts.  By  Eleanor  Eobson  and  Harriet 
Ford.  8  males,  3  females.  2  interiors.  Modern  costumes. 
Plays  2*4  hours. 

"Philip  Yantine  has  bought  a  rare  copy  of  an  original  Boula 
•abinet  and  ordered  it  shipped  to  his  New  York  home  from  Paris. 
When  it  arrives  it  is  found  to  be  the  original  itself,  the  pos- 
session of  which  is  desired  by  many  strange  people.  Before  th» 
mystery  concerned  with  the  cabinet's  shipment  can  be  cleared 
vp,  two  persons  meet  mysterious  death  fooling  with  it  and  the 
happiness  of  many  otherwise  happy  actors  is  threatened"  (Burns 
Mantle).  A  first-rate  mystery  play,  comprising  all  the  elements 
•f  suspense,  curiosity,  comedy  and  drama.  "In  the  Next  Room" 
It  quite  easy  to  sta-ge.  It  can  be  unreservedly  recommended  to 
ftchoolB  ami  colleges,  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.) 

Price,  75  Cent*. 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
(3Snc  New  Descriptive  Catalogue  Sent  Free  on  Request 


THE 
ROMANTIC    AGE 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 


BY 

A.   A.    MILNE 


COPYRIGHT   1922   BY   A.   A.   MILNE 


ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CAUTION. — Professionals  and  Amateurs  are  hereby  warned  that  "THE 
ROMANTIC  AGE,"  being  fully  protected  under  the  copyright  laws 
of  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain,  is  subject  to  a  royalty,  and 
anyone  presenting  the  play  without  the  consent  of  the  owners  or  their 
authorized  agents  will  be  liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided. 
Application  for  professional  and  amateur  acting  rights  must  be  made 
to  Samuel  French,  25  We»t  45th  Street,  New  York  City,  N.  Y. 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET 

STRAND 


on  this  play  payable  to  «nu 

.- 


THE  ROMANTIC  AGE 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of 
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having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  right 
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public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  produc- 
tion, recitation,  or  public  reading,  or  radio  broadcasting 
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This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment 
of  a  royalty  of  Fifty  Dollars  for  each  performance, 
payable  to  Samuel  French,  25  West  45th  Street, 
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Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for 
any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows. 

"SECTION  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep- 
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Revised  Statutes :  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  programme  of  the  first  performance 
of  "The  Romantic  Age"  at  the  Comedy  Theatre,  New  York,  Friday 
evening,  November  i7th,  1922. 

HUGH  FORD  and  FREDERICK  STANHOPE 
PRESENT 

A.    A.    MILNE'S 

New  Comedy 
THE    ROMANTIC    AGE 

Staged  by  Frederick  Stanhope 

THE  CAST 

MRS.    KNOWLE        Daisy  Belmore 

MELISANDE   (HER  DAUGHTER) Margalo    Gillmore 

JANE  BAGOT  (HER  NIECE) Jean  Ford 

ALICE Ida  Molthen 

MR.   KNOWLE Marsh  Allen 

BOBBY Neil  Martin 

GERVASE   MALLORY Leslie  Howard 

ERN         Paul  Jaccia 

MASTER  SUSAN         /.  M.  Kerrigan 

SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENES 

ACT      I — Th?  Hall  of  Mr.  Knoivle's  House;  Evening 
ACT    II — A  Glade  in  the  Woods;  Morning 
ACT  III — The  Hall  again;  Afternoon 


2114979 


LESLIE  HOWARD  AS  GERVASE 


ITo  face  page  5 


CHARACTERS 

First  produced  by  Mr.  Arthur  Wontner  at  the  Comedy  Theatre,  Lon3on,  oa 
October  18, 1920,  with  the  following  cast : 

HBNRY  KNOWLE .     .  A.  Bromley-Davenport. 

MART  KNOWLB  (hia  Wife) •     •     .  Lottie  Venne. 

MELISANDE  (his  Daughter) Barbara  II off e. 

JANE  (his  Niece) Dorothy  Tetley. 

BOBBY John  Williams. 

GKRVASE  MALLORY     . Arthur  Wontner. 

EBN Roy  Lennol. 

GENTLEMAS  SUSAN ...//.  0.  Nicholson. 

Auoa    *«... Irene  Rathbon*. 

ACT  I 
^  2*14  hall  of  MB.  KNOWLE'S  house.    Evening* 

ACT  H 
A  glade  in  the  wood.    Morning. 

ACT  m 
fkt  hall  again.    Afternoon 


THE  ROMANTIC  AGE 

ACT  I 

The  inner  hall  of  MB.  HENRY  KNOWLE'S  country  house,  at  about 
9.15  of  a  June  evening.  There  are  doors  R.  and  L. — on  the  right 
leading  to  the  drawing-room,  on  the  left  to  the  entrance  hall,  the  dining- 
room  and  the  library.  At  the  back  are  windows — French  windows 
on  the  right,  then  an  interval  of  wall,  then  casement  windows. 

MRS.  HENRY  KNOWLE,  her  daughter,  MELISANDE,  and  her  niece, 
JANE  BAGOT,  are  waiting  for  their  coffee.  MRS.  KNOWLE,  short  and 
stoutish,  is  reclining  on  the  sofa  ;  JANE,  pleasant-looking  and  rather 
obviously  pretty,  is  sitting  on  the  settee  R.,  lower  end,  glancing  at  a 
book;  MELISANDE,  the  beautiful,  the  romantic,  is  standing  by  the 
open  French  windows,  gazing  into  the  night. 

ALICE,  the  parlourmaid,  comes  in  with  the  coffee  and  goes  down  L. 
She  stands  in  front  of  MRS.  KNOWLE,  a  little  embarrassed  because 
MRS.  KNOWLE'S  eyes  are  closed.  She  waits  there  until  JANE  looks 
up  from  her  book. 

JANE.    Aunt  Mary,  dear,  are  you  having  coffee  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (opening  her  eyes  with  a  start).  Coffee.  Oh,  yes, 
coffee.  Jane,  put  the  milk  in  for  me.  (ALICE  crosses  to  JANE.) 
And  no  sugar.  Dr.  Anderson  is  very  firm  about  that.  "  No  sugar, 
Mrs.  Knowle,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  Dr.  Anderson  !  "  I  said. 

(JANE  pours  out  her  own  and  her  aunt's  coffee,  and  take*  her  cup 

off  the  tray.) 

JANB.    Thank  you. 

(ALICE  takes  the  tray  to  MBS.  KNOWLB.) 
MBS.  KNOWLB.    Thank  you. 

(ALICE  goes  over  to  MELISAN DE,  who  says  nothing,  but  waves  JUT  away, 
ALICE  goes  out  L.) 

MBS.  KNOWLB  (as  soon  as  ALICE  w  gone).    Jane  1 
JANE.    Tea,  Aunt  Mary  f 
MBS.  KNOWLE.    Was  my  mouth  open  ? 
Oh,  no,  Aunt  Mary. 

f 


•  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  L 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  Ah,  I'm  glad  of  that.  It's  so  bad  for  the  servants. 
(She  finishes  her  coffee.) 

JANE  (getting  up  and  moving  L.).    Shall  I  put  it  down  for  you  f 
MBS.  KNOWLE.     Thank  you,  dear. 

(JANE  puts  the  two  cups  down  and  goes  back  to  her  book.    MRS.  KNOWLB 
fidgets  a  Hide  on  her  sofa.) 

MBS.  KNOWLB.    Sandy  1    (There  is  no  answer.)    Sandy  I 
JANE.    Melisande  1 

(MELISANDE  turns  her  head.) 

MELISANDB.    Did  you  call  me,  Mother  ? 

MBS.  KNOWLE.    Three  times,  darling.    Didn't  you  hear  me? 

MELISANDE.    I  am  sorry,  Mother,  I  was  thinking  of  other  things. 

MBS.  KNOWLE.  You  think  too  much,  dear.  You  remember 
what  the  great  poet  tells  us :  "  Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them 
all  day  long."  Tennyson,  wasn't  it  ?  I  know  I  wrote  it  in  your 
album  for  you  when  you  were  a  little  (jirl.  It's  so  true. 

MELISANDB.    Kingsley,  Mother,  not  Tennyson. 

JANE  (nodding).    Kingsley,  that's  right. 

MBS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  it's  the  same  thing.  I  know  when  my 
mother  used  to  call  me  I  used  to  come  running  up,  saying,  "  What 
is  it,  Mummy,  darling  ?  "  And  even  if  it  was  anything  upstairs, 
like  a  handkerchief  or  a  pair  of  socks  to  be  mended,  I  used  to  trot 
off  happily,  saying  to  myself,  "  Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them 
all  day  long." 

MELISANDB  (coming  down  o.  to  chair  o.).  I  am  sorry,  Mother. 
What  is  the  noble  thing  you  want  doing  ? 

MBS.  KNOWLE.  Well  now,  you  see,  I've  forgotten.  If  only  you'd 
come  at  once,  dear 

MELISANDB.  I  was  looking  out  into  the  night.  It's  a  wonderful 
night.  Midsummer  Night. 

MBS.  KNOWLE.  Midsummer  Night.  And  now  I  suppose  the 
days  will  start  drawing  in,  and  we  shall  have  winter  upon  us  before 
we  know  where  we  are.  All  these  changes  of  the  seasons  are  very 
inconsiderate  to  an  invalid.  (MELISANDE  goes  up  and  then  to  window 
I.C.)  Ah,  now  I  remember  what  I  wanted,  dear.  Can  you  find 
me  another  cushion  t  Dr.  Anderson  considers  it  most  important 
that  the  small  of  the  back  should  be  well  supported  after  a  meal. 
(Indicating  the  place.)  Just  here,  dear. 

JANE  (jumping  up  with  the  cushion  from  her  chair  and  moving  L.). 
Let  me,  Aunt  Mary. 

MBS.  KNOWLE.    Thank  700,  Jane.    Just  here,  please. 

(JANE  arranges  it.    MELISANDE  moves  across  to  the  French  windows.) 

JANE.    Is  that  right ! 

MBS.  KVOWLB*    dank  you,  dear.    I  only  do  it  for  Dr.  Anderson'i 


Ac*  I.]  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  9 

(JANE  goes  6ac&  to  her  book  and  MELISANDE  goes  baoJc  to  her  Midsummer 
Night.  There  is  silence  for  a  little.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE.    Oh,  Sandy  .  .  .  Sandy  I 

JANE.    Melisande ! 

MELISANDE.    Yes,  Mother  f 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Oh,  Sandy,  I've  just  remembered (MELISANDH 

thudders.)  What  is  it,  darling  child  ?  Are  you  cold  ?  That  comes 
of  standing  by  the  open  window  in  a  treacherous  climate  like  this. 
Close  the  window  and  come  and  sit  down  properly. 

MELISANPE.  It's  a  wonderful  night,  Mother.  Midsummer  Night. 
I'm  not  cold.  (Coming  down  to  chair  R.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  But  you  shuddered.  I  distinctly  saw  you 
shudder.  Didn't  you  see  her,  Jane  ? 

JANE.     I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  looking,  Aunt  Mary. 

MELISANDE  (siting  in  chair  c.).  I  didn't  shudder  because  I  was 
cold.  I  shuddered  because  you  will  keep  calling  me  by  that  horrible 
name.  I  shudder  every  time  I  hear  it. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (surprised).     What  name,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE.  There  it  is  again.  Oh,  why  did  you  christen  me  by 
guch  a  wonderful,  beautiful,  magical  name  as  Melisande,  if  you  were 
going  to  call  me  Sandy  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  Well,  dear,  as  I  think  I've  told  you,  that  was  a 
mistake  of  your  father's.  I  suppose  he  got  it  out  of  some  book.  I 
should  certainly  never  have  agreed  to  it,  if  I  had  heard  him  distinctly. 
I  thought  he  said  Millicent — after  your  Aunt  Milly.  And  not  being 
very  well  at  the  time,  and  leaving  it  all  to  him,  I  never  really  knew 
about  it  until  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything.  I  did  say  to  your 
father,  "  Can't  we  christen  her  again  ?  "  But  there  was  notiiing 
in  the  prayer  book  about  it  except  ("riper  years,"  and  nobody 
seemed  to  know  when  riper  years  began.  Besides,  we  were  all 
calling  you  Sandy  then.  I  think  Sandy  is  a  very  pretty  name, 
don't  you,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  Oh,  but  don't  you  think  Melisande  is  beautiful,  Aunt 
Mary  ?  I  mean  really  beautiful. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  it  never  seems  to  me  quite  respectable, 
not  for  a  nicely-brought-up  young  girl  in  a  Christian  house.  It 
makes  me  think  of  the  sort  of  person  who  meets  a  strange  young 
man  to  whom  she  has  never  been  introduced,  and  talks  to  him  in  a 
forest  with  her  hair  coming  down.  They  find  her  afterwards  floating 
in  a  pool.  Not  at  all  the  thing  one  wants  for  one's  daughter. 

JANE.    Oh,  but  how  thrilling  it  sounds  ! 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  I  think  you  are  safer  with  "  Jane,"  dear. 
Your  mother  knew  what  she  was  about.  And  if  I  can  save  my  only 
child  from  floating  in  a  pool  by  calling  her  Sandy,  I  certainly  think 
it  is  my  duty  to  do  so. 

MELISANDB  (to  herself  ecstatically).    Melisande  1 

MRS.  KNOWLB  (to  MELISANDE).  Oh,  and  talking  about  floating 
In  a  pool  reminds  me  about  the  bread-sauce  at  dinner  to-night. 


10  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acs  I. 

You  heard  what  your  father  said  t  You  must  give  cook  a  good 
talking  to  in  the  morning.  She  has  been  getting  very  careless  lately. 
I  don't  know  what's  come  over  her.  (She  drops  her  handkerchief.) 

MELISANDE.  I've  come  over  her.  When  you  were  over  her, 
everything  was  all  right.  You  know  all  about  housekeeping ;  you 
take  an  interest  in  it.  I  don't.  I  hate  it.  How  can  you  expect 
the  house  to  be  run  properly  when  they  all  know  I  hate  it  ?  Why 
did  you  ever  give  it  up  and  make  me  do  it  when  you  know  how  I 
hate  it  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  Well,  you  must  learn  not  to  hate  it.  I'm  sure 
Jane  here  doesn't  hate  it,  and  her  mother  is  always  telling  me  what 
*  great  help  she  is. 

MELISANDE  (warningly).  It's  no  good  your  saying  you  like  It, 
Jane,  after  what  you  told  me  yesterday. 

JANE.  I  don't  like  it,  but  it  doesn't  make  me  miserable  doing 
it.  But  then  I'm  different.  I'm  not  romantic  like  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  One  doesn't  need  to  be  very  romantic  not  to  want 
to  talk  about  bread-sauce.  Bread-sauce  on  a  night  like  this  I  (She 
moves  up  to  the  French  windows  again.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  I'm  only  thinking  of  you,  Sandy,  not  oi 
myself.  If  I  thought  about  myself  I  should  disregard  all  the  warnings 
that  Dr.  Anderson  keeps  giving  me,  and  I  should  insist  on  doing 
the  housekeeping  just  as  I  always  used  to.  But  I  have  to  think 
of  you.  I  want  to  see  you  married  to  some  nice,  steady  young  man 
before  I  die — my  handkerchief,  Jane — (JANE  picks  up  and  gives 
her  her  handkerchief  from  the  other  end  of  the  sofa) — before  I  die  (she 
touches  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief),  and  no  nice  young  man  will 
want  to  marry  you,  if  you  haven't  learnt  how  to  look  after  his  house 
for  him. 

MELISANDE  (contemptuously).  If  that's  marriage,  I  shall  never 
get  married.  (Comes  down  and  sits  on  arm  of  chair  o.) 

JANE  (shocked).    Melisande,  darling  ! 

MBS.  KNOWLE.  Dr.  Anderson  was  saying,  only  yesterday,  trying 
to  make  me  more  cheerful,  "  Why,  Mrs.  Knowle,"  he  said,  "  you'U 
live  another  hundred  years  yet."  "  Dr.  Anderson,"  I  said,  "  I 
don't  want  to  live  another  hundred  years.  I  only  want  to  live 
until  my  dear  daughter,  Melisande  " — I  didn't  say  Sandy  to  him 
because  it  seemed  rather  familiar — "  I  only  want  to  live  until  my 
daughter  Melisande  is  happily  married  to  some  nice,  steady  young 
man.  Do  this  for  me,  Dr.  Anderson,"  I  said,  "  and  I  shall  be 
your  lifelong  debtor."  He  promised  to  do  his  best.  It  was  then 
that  he  mentioned  about  the  cushion  in  the  small  of  the  back  after 
meals.  And  so  don't  forget  to  tell  cook  about  the  bread-sauce, 
will  you,  dear  ! 

MELISANDE.    I  will  tell  her,  Mother. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  That's  right.  I  like  a  man  to  be  interested  in 
his  food.  I  hope  both  your  husbands,  Sandy  and  Jane,  will  take  a 
proper  interest  in  what  they  eat.  You  will  find  that,  after  you  have 


Aor.  L]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  II 

been  married  some  years,  and  told  each  other  everything  you  did 
and  saw  before  you  met,  there  isn't  really  anything  to  talk  about 
at  meals  except  food.  And  you  must  talk ;  I  hope  you  will  both 
remember  that.  Nothing  breaks  up  the  home  so  quickly  as  silent 
meals.  Of  course,  breakfast  doesn't  matter,  because  he  has  hia 
paper  then ;  and  after  you  have  said,  "  Is  there  anything  in  the 
paper,  dear  ?  "  and  he  has  said,  "  No,"  then  he  doesn't  expect 
anything  more.  I  wonder  sometimes  why  they  go  on  printing 
the  newspapers.  I've  been  married  twenty  years,  and  there  has 
never  been  anything  in  the  paper  yet. 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  Mother,  I  hate  to  hear  you  talking  about 
marriage  like  that.  Wasn't  there  ever  any  kind  of  romance  between 
you  and  Father  I  Not  even  when  he  was  wooing  you  ?  Wasn't 
there  ever  one  magic  Midsummer  morning  when  you  saw  suddenly 
"  a  livelier  emerald  twinkle  in  the  grass,  a  purer  sapphire  melt  into 
the  sea  "  !  Wasn't  there  ever  one  passionate  ecstatic  moment 
when  "  once  he  drew  with  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  through, 
my  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew  "  ?  Or  did  you  talk  about  bread- 
sauce  all  the  time  ?  (Crosses  to  settee  R.  and  sits.) 

JANE  (eagerly).    Tell  us  about  it,  Aunt  Mary. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  Well,  dear,  there  isn't  very  much  to  tell.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  we  never  drank  dew  together,  or  anything  like  that, 
as  Sandy  suggests,  and  it  wasn't  by  the  sea  at  all,  it  was  at  Surbiton. 
(MKLISANDE  shudders.)  He  used  to  come  down  from  London  with 
his  racquet  and  play  tennis  with  us.  And  then  he  would  stay  on 
to  supper  sometimes,  and  then  after  supper  we  would  go  into  the 
garden  together — it  was  quite  dark  then,  but  everything  smelt  so 
beautifully,  I  shall  always  remember  it — and  we  talked,  oh,  I 
don't  know  what  about,  but  I  knew  somehow  that  I  should  marry 
him  one  day.  I  don't  think  he  knew — he  wasn't  sure — and  then 
he  came  to  a  subscription  dance  one  evening — I  think  Mother, 
your  grandmother,  guessed  that  that  was  to  be  my  great  evening, 
because  she  was  very  particular  about  my  dress,  and  I  remember 
Bhe  sent  me  upstairs  again  before  we  started,  because  I  hadn't  got 
the  right  pair  of  shoes  on — rather  a  tight  pair — however,  I  put  them 
•n.  And  there  was  a  hansom  outside  the  hall,  and  it  was  our  last 
dance  together,  and  he  said,  "  Shall  we  sit  it  out,  Miss  Bagot  ?  " 
Well,  of  course,  I  was  only  too  glad  to,  and  we  sat  it  out  in  the  hansom, 
driving  all  round  Surbiton,  and  what  your  grandmother  would 
have  said  I  don't  know,  but,  of  course,  I  never  told  her.  And  when 
we  got  home  after  the  dance,  I  went  up  to  her  room — as  soon  as 
I'd  got  my  shoes  off — and  said,  "  Mother,  I  have  some  wonderful 
news  for  you,"  and  she  said,  "  Not  Mr.  Knowle — Henry  ?  "  and  I 
said,  "  *M,"  rather  bright-eyed,  you  know,  and  wanting  to  cry. 
And  she  said,  "  Oh,  my  darling  child !  "  and — Jane,  where's  my 
handkerchief  t  (It  has  dropped  off  the  sofa  and  JANE  picks  it  up). 
Thank  you,  dear.  (She  dabs  her  eyes.)  Well,  that's  really  all,  you 
know,  except  that— (s/w  dabs  her  eyes  again) — I'm  afraid  I'm 


12  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  [AcT  L 

feeling  rather  overcome.  I'm  sure  Dr.  Anderson  would  say  it  was 
very  bad  for  me  to  feel  overcome.  Your  poor  dear  grandmother. 
Jane,  dear,  why  did  you  ask  me  to  tell  you  all  this  ?  I  must  go 
away  and  compose  myself  before  your  uncle  and  Mr.  Coote  come  in. 
(MELISANDE  rises  and  moves  up  c.)  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do  if  Mr.  Coote  saw  me  like  this.  (She  begins  to  get  up.)  And  after 
calling  me  a  Spartan  Mother  only  yesterday,  because  I  said  that  if 
any  nice,  steady  young  man  came  along  and  took  my  own  dear 
little  girl  away  from  me,  I  should  bear  the  terrible  wrench  in  silence 
rather  than  cause  either  of  them  a  moment's  remorse.  (She  is  up 
now.)  There !  (Walking  towards  door  B.) 

JANE  (rising).    Shall  I  come  with  you  ? 

MBS.  KNOWLE  (above  settee  B.).  No,  dear,  not  just  now.  Let  me 
be  by  myself  for  a  little.  (She  turns  back  suddenly  at  the  door.)  Oh  ! 
Perhaps  later  on,  when  the  men  come  from  the  dining-room,  dear 
Jane,  you  might  join  me,  with  your  Uncle  Henry — if  the  opportunity 
occurs.  .  .  .  (At  door  B.)  But  only  if  it  occurs,  of  course. 

(She  goes  out  B.) 

JANE  (coming  back  to  the  settee  L.  and  putting  the  cushions  straight). 
Poor  Aunt  Mary  !  It  always  seems  so  queer  that  one's  mother  and 
aunts  and  people  should  have  had  their  romances  too.  (Sits  on 
settee  L.) 

MELISANDE  (coming  down  c.).  Do  you  call  that  romance,  Jane  ? 
Tennis  and  subscription  dances  and  wearing  tight  shoes  ? 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Well,  no,  darling,  not  romance  of  course, 
but  you  know  what  I  mean. 

MELISANDE.  Just  think  of  the  commonplace  little  story  which 
mother  has  just  told  us,  and  compare  it  with  any  of  the  love-stories 
of  history.  Isn't  it  pitiful,  Jane,  that  people  should  be  satisfied 
now  with  so  little  ? 

JANE.  Yes,  darling,  very,  very  sad,  but  I  don't  think  Aunt 
Mary 

MELISANDE  (moving  to  settee  B.).  I  am  not  blaming  Mother.  It 
is  the  same  almost  everywhere  nowadays.  There  is  no  romance 
left. 

JANE.  No,  darling.  Of  course,  I  am  not  romantic  like  you,  but 
I  do  agree  with  you.  It  is  very  sad.  Somehow  there  is  no — (she 
searches  for  the  right  word) — no  romance  left. 

MELISANDE.  Just  think  of  the  average  marriage.  It  makes  one 
shudder.  (Turns  up  stage.) 

JANB  (doing  her  best).    Positively  shudder! 

MELISANDE  (turns  down  stage).  He  meets  Her  at — (she  shudders) 
—a  subscription  dance,  or  a  tennis  party — (she  shudders  again)  or 
—at  golf.  He  calls  upon  her  mother — perhaps  in  a  top  hat — perhaps 
t  (tragicall  ]  even  in  a  bowler  hat.  (Sits  on  settee  B.) 

JANE.    A  bowler  hat !     One  shudders. 

MBLISANDE.     Her  mother  makes  tactful  L  juiries  about  his  i» 


Ac*  I.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  IS 

come — discovers  that  he  is  a  nice,  steady  young  man — and  decides 
that  he  shall  marry  her  daughter.  He  is  asked  to  come  again,  he 
is  invited  to  parties  ;  it  is  understood  that  he  is  falling  in  love  with 
the  daughter.  The  rest  of  the  family  are  encouraged  to  leave  them 
alone  together — if  the  opportunity  occurs,  Jane.  (Contemptuously.) 
But,  of  course,  only  if  it  occurs. 

JANE  (awkwardly.)    Yes,  dear. 

MELISANDE.    One  day  he  proposes  to  her. 

JANE  (to  herself  ecstatically).  Oh  I  (Moves  quickly  over  to  MELI- 
BANDE.) 

MELISANDE.  He  stutters  out  a  few  unbeautiful  words  which  she 
takes  to  be  a  proposal.  She  goes  and  tells  Mother.  He  goes  and 
tells  Father.  They  are  engaged.  They  talk  about  each  other  as 
"  my  fiance. "  Perhaps  they  are  engaged  for  months  and  months 

JANE  (by  MELISANDE'S  side).  Years  and  years  sometimes, 
Melisande. 

MELISANDE.  For  years  and  years — and  wherever  they  go,  people 
make  silly  little  jokes  about  them,  and  cough  very  loudly  if  they  go 
into  a  room  where  the  two  of  them  are.  And  then  they  get  married 
at  last,  and  everybody  comes  and  watches  them  get  married,  and 
makes  more  silly  jokes,  and  they  go  away  for  what  they  call  a  honey- 
moon, and  they  tell  everybody — they  shout  it  out  in  the  newspapers 
— where  they  are  going  for  their  honeymoon  ;  and  then  they  come 
back  and  start  talking  about  bread-sauce.  Oh,  Jane,  it's  horrible. 

JANE.  Horrible,  darling.  (With  a  French  air.)  But  what  would 
you  t 

MELISANDE  (in  a  low  thrilling  voice).  What  would  1 1  Ah, 
what  would  I,  Jane  ? 

JANE.  Because  you  see,  Sandy — (hastily)  I  mean  Melisande — you 
see,  darling,  this  is  the  twentieth  century,  and 

MELISANDE.  Sometimes  I  see  him  clothed  in  mail,  riding  beneath 
my  lattice  window. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewelled  shone  the  saddle  leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet  feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  togethee, 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

And  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

JAOTB.    I  know,  dear.    But  of  course  they  don't  nowadays. 

MELISANDE.  And  as  he  rides  beneath  my  room,  singing  to  himself, 
I  wave  one  lily  hand  to  him  from  my  lattice,  and  toss  him  down  a 
gage,  a  gage  for  him  to  wear  in  his  helm,  a  rose — perhaps  just  a  rose. 

JANE  (awed).  No,  Melisande,  would  you  really  ?  Wave  a  lily 
hand  to  him  ?  (She  waves  one.)  I  mean,  wouldn't  it  be  rather— 
you  know.  Bather  forward. 


14  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acw  I. 

MELISANDE.    Forward ! 

JANE  (upset).  Well,  I  mean Well,  of  course,  I  suppose  it 

was  different  in  those  days. 

MELISANDE.  And  then  when  he  has  slain  his  enemies  in  battle, 
he  comes  back  to  me.  I  knot  my  sheets  together  so  as  to  form  a 
rope  and  I  let  myself  down  to  him.  He  places  me  on  the  saddle 
in  front  of  him,  and  we  ride  forth  together  into  the  world — together 
for  always  1 

JANE  (a  little  uncomfortably).  You  do  get  married,  I  suppose, 
darling,  or  do  you — er 

MELISANDE  (in  a  matter-of-fact  tone).  We  stop  at  a  little  hermitage 
on  the  way,  and  a  good  priest  marries  us. 

JANE  (relieved).    Ah,  yes. 

MELISANDE.  And  sometimes  he  is  not  in  armour.  He  is  a  prince 
from  Fairyland.  My  father  is  king  of  a  neighbouring  country,  a 
country  which  is  sorely  troubled  by  a  dragon. 

JANE.    By  a  what,  dear  f 

MELISANDE.    A  dragon. 

JANE.    Oh,  yes,  of  course. 

MELISANDE.  The  king,  my  father,  offers  my  hand  and  half  his 
kingdom  to  anybody  who  will  slay  the  monster.  A  prince  who 
happens  to  be  passing  through  the  country  essays  the  adventure. 
Alas,  the  dragon  devours  him. 

JANE  (sympathetically).    Poor  fellow. 

MELISANDE.  And  then  one  evening  a  beautiful  and  modest 
youth  in  blue  and  gold  appears  at  my  father's  court,  and  begs  that 
he  too  be  allowed  to  try  his  fortune  with  the  dragon.  Passing 
through  the  great  hall  on  my  way  to  my  bed-chamber,  I  see  him 
suddenly.  Our  eyes  meet.  .  .  .  Oh,  Jane  1 

JANE.  Darling !  .  .  .  You  ought  to  have  lived  in  those  days, 
Melisande.  They  would  have  suited  you  so  well. 

MELIBANDE.    Will  they  never  come  back  again  ? 

JANE.  Well,  I  don't  quite  see  how  they  can.  People  don't 
dress  in  blue  and  gold  nowadays.  I  mean  men. 

MELISAWDB  (she  rises).  No.  (She  tight).  Well,  I  suppose  I 
•hall  never  marry.  (Moves  to  easement  window  L.O.) 

JANB.  Of  course,  I'm  not  romantic  like  you,  darling,  and  I  don't 
have  time  to  read  all  the  wonderful  books  you  read,  and  though  I 
quite  agree  with  everything  you  say,  and  of  course  it  must  have  been 
thrilling  to  have  lived  in  those  wonderful  old  days,  still  here  we  are, 
and  (vnth  a  wave  of  the  hand) — and  what  I  mean  is — here  we  are. 

MELISANDE  (coming  to  above  chair  o.)  You  are  content  to  put 
romance  out  of  your  life,  and  to  make  the  ordinary  commonplace 
marriage? 

JANB.  What  I  mean  is,  that  it  wouldn't  be  commonplace  if 
it  was  the  right  man.  Some  nice,  clean-looking  Englishman — I 
don't  say  beautiful — pleasant,  and  good  at  games,  dependable, 
BO*  very  olever  perhaps,  but  making  enough  money 


ACT  L]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  15 

MELISANDB  (carelessly).    It  sounds  rather  like  Bobby. 

JANE  (confused — rises  and  crosses  to  settee  L.).  It  isn't  like  Bobby, 
or  anyone  else  particularly.  It's  just  anybody.  It  wasn't  any 
particular  person.  I  was  just  describing  the  sort  of  man  without 
thinking  of  anyone  in (Sits.) 

MELISANDE.    All  right,  dear,  all  right. 

JANE.     Besides,  we  all  know  Bobby's  devoted  to  you. 

MELISANDE  (firmly,  and  sitting  by  JANE  on  settee  L.).  Now,  look 
here,  Jane,  I  warn  you  solemnly  that  if  you  think  you  are  going  to 

leave  me  and  Bobby  alone  together  this  evening (Voices  are 

heard  outside.)  Well,  I  warn  you. 

JANE  (in  a  whisper).  Of  course  not,  darling.  (With  perfect  tact.) 

And,  as  I  was  saying,  Melisande,  it  was  quite  the  most Ah, 

here  you  are  at  last !  We  wondered  what  had  happened  to  you  1 

(Enter  BOBBY  and  MR.  KNOWLE  L.  JANE  has  already  described  BOBBY 
for  us.  MR.  KNOWLE  t*  a  pleasant,  middle-aged  man  with  a  sense 
of  humour,  which  he  cultivates  for  his  own  amusement  entirely.  He 
goes  to  a  tobacco  jar  up  o.  and  fills  his  pipe.) 

BOBBY  (back  of  settee  L.).    Were  you  very  miserable  without  us  1 
JANE  (laughing).    Very. 

(MELISANDE  gets  up  as  BOBBY  speaks,  and  moves  away  to  settee  R. 

and  sits.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.    Where's  your  Mother,  Sandy? 

MELISANDE.    In  the  dining-room,  I  think,  Father. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (still  filling  his  pipe).  Ah  !  Besting,  no  doubt.  By 
the  way,  you  won't  forget  what  I  said  about  the  bread-sauce, 
will  you  ? 

MELISANDB.  You  don't  want  it  remembered,  Father,  do  you  ! 
What  you  said  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Not  the  actual  words.  (Coming  down.)  All  I 
want,  my  dear,  is  that  you  should  endeavour  to  explain  to  the  cook 
the  difference  between  bread-sauce  and  a  bread-poultice.  Make 
it  clear  to  her  that  there  is  no  need  to  provide  a  bread-poultice  with 
an  obviously  healthy  chicken,  such  as  we  had  to-night,  but  that  a 
properly  made  bread-sauce  is  a  necessity,  if  the  full  flavour  of  the 
bird  is  to  be  obtained. 

MELISANDB.  "  Full  flavour  of  the  bird  is  to  be  obtained."  Yes, 
Father. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  That's  right,  my  dear.  Bring  it  home  to  her. 
(Going  up  for  matches.)  A  little  quiet  talk  will  do  wonders.  Well, 
didn't  you  tell  me  it  was  Midsummer  Night.  Why  aren't  you  two 
out  in  the  garden  looking  for  fairies  ? 

BOBBY  (at  back  of  sofa  L.).  I  say,  it's  a  topping  night,  you  know. 
We  ought  to  be  out.  D'you  feel  like  a  stroll,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE.    No,  thank  you,  Bobby,  I  don't  think  111  go  out. 

BOBBY.    Oh,  I  say,  it's  awfully  warm. 


19  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  L 

MR.  KNOWLE  (moving  towards  JANE).  Well,  Jane,  I  shall  take 
you  out.  If  we  meet  any  of  Sandy's  fairy  friends,  you  can  introduce 
me. 

MELISANDE  (looking  across  warningly  at  her).    Jane 

JANE  (rises,  moves  to  MR.  KNOWLB  awkwardly).  I'm  afraid, 
Uncle  Henry  (glances  at  BOBBY  and  MELISANDE),  that  Melisande 
»nd  I — I  promised  Sandy — we 

MB.  KNOWLE  (putting  her  arm  firmly  through  his).  Nonsense. 
I'm  not  going  to  have  my  niece  taken  away  from  me,  when  she  ia 
only  staying  with  us  for  such  a  short  time.  (BOBBY  sits  in  chair 
down  L.)  Besides,  I  insist  upon  being  introduced  to  Titania.  I 
want  to  complain  about  the  rings  on  the  tennis-lawn.  They  must 
dance  somewhere  else. 

JANE  (looking  anxiously  at  MELISANDE).  You  see,  Uncle  Henry, 
Fm  not  feeling  very 

MELISANDK  (resigned).    All  right,  Jane. 

JANE  (brightly).    All  right,  Uncle  Henry. 

MR.  KNOWXJB  (looking  at  BOBBY — very  brightly).  It's  all  right, 
Bobby. 

JANE  (with  on  awkward  laugh).  Come  along !  (They  go  to  the 
open  windows  together.) 

MB.  KNOWLE  (as  they  go).  Any  message  for  Oberon,  if  we  meet 
him  ? 

MELISANDE  (gravely).    No,  thank  you,  Father. 

MB.  KNOWLE.     It's  his  turn  to  write,  I  suppose. 

(JANE  laughs  as  they  go  out  together.) 

{Left  alone,  MELISANDE,  on  settee  B.  takes  up  a  book  while  BOBBY 
walks  about  the  room  unhappily,  whistling  to  himself.  First  he 
goes  up  c.,  then  to  the  back  of  settee  B.,  then  to  the  back  of  chair  o. 
He  keeps  looking  across,  and  at  last  their  eyes  meet.) 

MELISANDE  (putting  down  her  book).    Well,  Bobby  I 

BOBBY  (awkwardly).    Well,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDE  (angrily).  Don't  call  me  that;  you  know  how  I 
hate  it. 

BOBBY  (sitting  on  arm  of  chair  c.).  Sony.  Melisande.  But  it's 
such  a  dashed  mouthful.  And  your  father  was  calling  you  Sandy 
just  now,  and  you  didn't  say  anything. 

MELISANDE.  One  cannot  always  control  one's  parents.  There 
come*  *  time  when  it  ia  almost  useless  to  say  things  to 
them. 

BOBBY  (eagerly).  I  never  mind  your  saying  things  to  me,  Sandy 
—I  mean,  Melisande.  I  never  shall  mind,  really  I  shan't.  Of 
course,  I  know  I'm  not  worthy  of  you,  and  all  that,  but — I  say, 
Melisande,  isn't  there  any  hope  ! 

MELISANDE.    Bobby,  I  asked  you  not  to  talk  to  me  like  that 


ACT  I.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  17 

BOBBY  (coming  to  her).  I  know  you  did,  but  I  must.  I  can't 
believe  that  you 

MELISANDB.  I  told  you  that,  if  you  promised  not  to  talk  like  that 
again,  then  I  wouldn't  tell  anybody  anything  about  it,  so  that  it 
shouldn't  be  awkward  for  you.  And  I  haven't  told  anybody,  not 
even  Jane,  to  whom  I  tell  all  my  secrets.  Most  men,  when  they 
propose  to  a  girl,  and  she  refuses  them,  have  to  go  right  out  of  the 
country  and  shoot  lions ;  it's  the  only  thing  left  for  them  to  do. 
But  I  did  try  and  make  it  easy  for  you,  Bobby.  (Sadly.)  And  now 
you're  beginning  all  over  again. 

BOBBY  (sits  on  the  L.  end  of  settee  B. — awkwardly).  I  thought 
perhaps  you  might  have  changed  your  mind.  Lots  of  girls  do. 

MELISANDE  (contemptuously).  Lots  of  girls  !  Is  that  how  you 
think  of  me  ? 

BOBBY.    Well,  your  mother  said (He  breaks  off  hurriedly.) 

MELISANDE  (coldly).  Have  you  been  discussing  me  with  my 
mother  ? 

BOBBY.     I  say,  Sandy,  don't  be  angry.    Sorry ;  I  mean  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.    Don't  apologize.    Go  on. 

BOBBY.  Well,  I  didn't  discuss  you  with  your  mother.  She  just 
happened  to  say  that  girls  never  knew  their  own  minds,  and  that 
they  always  said  "  No  "  the  first  time,  and  that  I  needn't  be  down- 
hearted, because 

MELISANDE.    That  you  needn't  ?    You  mean  you  told  her  I 

BOBBY.     Well,  it  sort  of  came  out. 

MELISANDE  (rising  and  moving  c. — indignantly).  After  I  had 
promised  that  I  wouldn't  say  anything,  you  went  and  told  her  I  And 
then  I  suppose  you  went  and  told  the  cook,  and  she  said  that  her 
brother's  young  woman  was  just  the  same,  and  then  you  told  the 
butcher,  and  he  said,  "  You  stick  to  it,  sir.  All  women  are  alike. 
My  missis  said  '  No  '  to  me  the  first  time."  (Walking  about.)  And 
then  you  went  and  told  the  gardeners — I  suppose  you  had  all  the 
gardeners  together  in  the  potting-shed,  and  gave  them  a  lecture 
about  it — and  when  you  had  told  them,  you  said,  "  Excuse  me  a 

moment,  I  must  now  go  and  tell  the  postman,"  and  then (Movet 

to  settee  L.) 

BOBBY  (rising).     I  say,  steady ;   you  know  that  isn't  fair. 

MELISANDE.    Oh,  what  a  world !     (She  sits  down.) 

BOBBY.    I  say,  you  know  that  isn't  fair. 

MELISANDE  (picking  up  a  book).  Father  and  Jane  are  outside, 
Bobby,  if  you  have  anything  you  wish  to  tell  them.  But  I  suppose 
they  know  already.  (She  pretends  to  read.) 

BOBBY  (crossing  to  MELISANDE).  I  say,  you  know (Hi 

doesn't  quite  know  what  to  say.  There  is  an  awkward  silence.  Then 
he  says  humbly)  I'm  awfully  sorry,  Melisande.  Please  forgive  me. 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  gravely).  That's  nice  of  you,  Bobby. 
Please  forgive  me.  I  wasn't  fair. 

EOBBY.    I  swear  I  never  said  anything  to  anybody  else,  only ; 


18  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  (Ao»  L 

mother.    And  it  sort  of  came  out  with  her.    She  began  talking  about 
you 

MELISANDE.    7  know. 

BOBBY.    But  I  never  told  anybody  else. 

MELISANDE.     It  wouldn't  be  necessary  if  you  told  Mother. 

BOBBY  (sitting  in  the  chair  o.,  which  he  moves  to  a  position  facing 
MELISANDE).  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  really  don't  see  why  you 
should  mind  so  much.  I  mean,  I  know  I'm  not  anybody  very  much, 
but  I  can't  help  falling  in  love  with  you,  and — well,  it  is  a  sort  of  a 
compliment  to  you,  isn't  it  ? — even  if  it's  only  me. 

MELISANDE.  Of  course  it  is,  Bobby,  and  I  do  thank  you  for  the 
compliment.  But  mixing  Mother  up  in  it  makes  it  all  so — so 
unromantic.  (After  a  pause.)  Sometimes  I  think  I  shall  never 
marry. 

BOBBY.    Oh,  rot !  ...  I  say,  you  do  like  me,  don't  you  ? 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  yes.  You  are  a  nice,  clean-looking  Englishman 
— I  don't  say  beautiful 

BOBBY.    I  should  hope  not  1 

MELISANDE.  Pleasant,  good  at  games,  dependable — not  very 
clever,  perhaps,  but  making  enough  money 

BOBBY.     Well,  I  mean,  that's  not  so  bad. 

MELISANDE.     Oh,  but  I  want  so  much  more ! 

BOBBY.     What  sort  of  things  ? 

MELISANDE.     Oh,  Bobby,  you're  so — so  ordinary ! 

BOBBY.  Well,  dash  it  all,  you  didn't  want  me  to  be  a  freak, 
did  you  ! 

MELISANDB  (to  herself).    So — commonplace.    So — unromantic. 

BOBBY.     I  say,  steady  on  I     I  don't  say  I'm  always  readii^ 
poetry  and  all  that,  if  that's  what  you  mean  by  romantic,  but- 
commonplace  !     I'm  blessed  if  I  see  how  you  make  out  that. 

MELISANDE  (moving  her  position  to  top  of  settee).  Bobby,  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  your  feelings 

BOBBY.    Go  on,  never  mind  my  feelings. 

MEUSANDE.    Well  then,  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass ! 

(BOBBY  goes  anxiously  to  the  glass  up  &.,  and  then  putts  at  hit 

clothes.) 

BOBBY  (looking  back  at  her).    Well  t 

MELISANDE.    Well ! 

BOBBY.    I  don't  see  what's  wrong.    (Coming  down  again.) 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  Bobby,  everything's  wrong.  The  man  tt 
whom  I  give  myself  must  be  not  only  my  lover,  but  my  true  knight, 
my  hero,  my  prince.  He  must  perform  deeds  of  derring-do  to  win 
my  love.  Oh,  how  can  you  perform  deeds  of  derring-do  in  a  stupid 
little  suit  like  that ! 

BOBBY  (about  o.,  looking  at  it).  What's  the  matter  with  it  ?  It's 
what  every  other  fellow  wears. 

MHUSANDH  (contemptuously).     What  avery  other  fellow  w«ars ! 


ACT  L]  THE  ROMANTIC  AOB.  10 

And  you  think  what  every  other  fellow  thinks,  and  talk  what  every 

other  fellow  talks,  and  eat  what  every  other I  suppose  you 

didn't  like  the  bread-sauce  this  evening ! 

BOBBY  (guardedly).    Well,  not  as  bread-sauoe. 

MELISANDB  (nodding  her  head).    I  thought  so,  I  thought  so. 

BOBBY  (struck  by  an  idea).    I  say,  you  didn't  make  it,  did  you  I 

MELISANDB.    Do  I  look  as  if  I  made  it  I 

BOBBY.  I  thought  perhaps (Sits  in  chair  o.)  You  know,  I 

leally  don't  know  what  you  do  want,  Sandy.  Sorry ;  I  mean 

MELISANDE.    Go  on  calling  me  Sandy,  I'd  rather  you  did. 

BOBBY.  Well,  when  you  marry  this  prince  of  yours,  is  he  going 
to  do  the  cooking !  I  don't  understand  you,  Sandy,  really  I 
don't. 

MELISANDB  (shaking  her  head  gently  at  him).  No,  I'm  sure  you 
don't,  Bobby. 

BOBBY  (still  trying,  however).  I  suppose  it's  because  he's  doing 
the  cooking  that  he  won't  be  able  to  dress  for  dinner.  He  sounds 
a  funny  sort  of  chap  ;  I  should  like  to  see  him. 

MELISANDB.     You  wouldn't  understand  him  if  you  did  see  hiia. 

BOBBY  (jealously).    Have  you  seen  him  f 

MELISANDB.    Only  in  my  dreams. 

BOBBY  (relieved).    Oh,  well. 

MELISANDE  (dreamily  to  herself).  Perhaps  I  shall  never  see  him 
in  this  world — and  then  I  shall  never  marry.  But  if  he  ever  comes 
for  me,  he  will  come  not  like  other  men ;  and  because  he  is  so 
different  from  everybody  else,  then  I  shall  know  him  when  he  cornea 
for  me.  He  won't  talk  about  bread-sauce — billiards — and  the 
money  market.  He  won't  wear  a  little  black  suit,  with  a  little 
black  tie — all  sideways.  (BOBBY  hastily  pulls  his  tie  straight..)  I 
don't  know  how  he  will  be  dressed,  but  I  know  this,  that  when  I 
see  him,  that  when  my  eyes  have  looked  into  his,  when  his  eyes  have 
looked  into  mine 

(MBS.  KNOWLE  has  seized  this  moment  to  come  back  for  her  handker- 
chief. She  enters  a.  She  sees  them  together  and  begins  to  walb 
out  on  tiptoe.) 

BOBBY.    I  say,  steady! 

MELISANDE  (waking  from  her  dream).    Yes  f    (She  gives  •  Uttb 
laugh.)    Poor  Bobby  I 
BOBBY  (appealitigly).    I  say,  Sandy  t 

(They  hear  MBS.  KNOWLE  and  turn  round  suddenly} 

MBS.  KNOWLE  (in  a  whisper,  above  settee  L.).  Don't  take  any  notice 
of  me.  I  only  just  came  for  my  handkerchief.  (She  continues  to 
walk  on  tiptoe  towards  the  door  L.) 

(BOBBY  rises.) 
MELISANDB.    We  were  just  wondering  where  yon  were,  Mother. 


20  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  L 

Here's  your  handkerchief .  (She  picks  it  up  from  the  sofa  and  hands 
it  to  MRS.  KNOWLE  across  the  back.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (still  in  the  voice  in  which  you  speak  to  an  invalid). 
Thank  you,  dear.  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you — I  was  just  goinp 

MELISANDE  (rising  and  crossing  to  the  French  windows,  walking 
slowly).  But  I  am  just  going  into  the  garden.  Stay  and  talk  to 
Bobby,  won't  you  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (with  a  happy  smile,  hoping  for  the  best).  Yes,  my 
darling.  (She  comes  down  L.  and  sits  on  the  top  end  of  settee  L.) 

MELTSANDE.  That's  right.  (She  stops  at  the  windows  and  hold* 
out  her  hands  to  the  night.  BOBBY  goes  up  stage,  watching  her)— 

The  moon  shines  bright :   In  such  a  night  as  this 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees 
And  they  did  make  no  noise,  in  such  a  night 
Troilua  methinks  mounted  the  Troyan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  towards  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night.     In  such  a  nigh* 
Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand, 
Upon  the  wild  sea  banks,  and  waft  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

(She  stays  there  a  moment,  and  then  says  in  a  thrilling  voice)  In  such 
a  night !  Ah  1 

(She  goes  to  it.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (in  a  satisfied,  knowing  voice).  Ah !  .  .  .  (Turning  to 
lim)  Well,  Mr.  Coote  ? 

BOBBY  (turning  back  to  her  with  a  start).     Oh — er — yes  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  No,  I  think  I  must  call  you  Bobby.  I  may 
call  you  Bobby,  mayn't  I  ? 

BOBBY  (coming  down  c.,  facing  MBS.  KNOWLE).  Oh,  please  do, 
Mrs.  Knowle. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (archly).  Not  Mrs.  Knowle !  Can't  you  think  of 
•  better  name  ? 

BOBBY  (wondering  if  he  ought  to  catt  her  MARY).  Er — I'm — I'm 
afraid  I  don't  quite 

MRS.  KNOWLE.    Mother. 

BOBBY.    Oh,  but  I  say— 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  And  now  come  and  sit  on  tne  sofa  with  me,  and 
tell  me  all  about  it. 

(BOBBY  goes  to  the  sofa  and  sits  on  the  left  side  of  MRS.  KNOWLE.) 

BOBBY.    But  I  say,  Mrs.  Knowle 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (shaking  a  finger  playfully  at  him).  Not  Mrs. 
Knowle,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  But  I  say,  you  mustn't  think — I  mean  Sandy  and  I — 
we  aren't 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Coote,  that  she 
has  refused  you  again. 

BOBBY.    Yea,    I  say,  I'd  much  rather  not  talk  about  it. 


Ac*  I.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  21 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  Well,  it  just  shows  you  that  what  I  said  the 
other  day  was  true.  Girls  don't  know  their  own  minds. 

BOBBY  (ruefully).    I  think  Sandy  knows  hers — about  me,  anyhow. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  Mr.  Coote,  you  are  forgetting  what  the  poet  said 
•—Shakespeare,  or  was  it  the  other  man  ? — "  Faint  heart  never  won 
fair  lady."  If  Mr.  Knowle  had  had  a  faint  heart,  he  would  never 
have  won  me.  Seven  times  I  refused  him,  and  seven  times  he  came 
again — like  Jacob.  The  eighth  time  he  drew  out  a  revolver,  and 
threatened  to  shoot  himself.  I  was  shaking  like  an  aspen  leaf. 
Suddenly  I  realized  that  I  loved  him.  "  Henry,"  I  said,  "  I  am 
yours."  He  took  me  in  his  arms — putting  down  the  revolver  first, 
of  course.  I  have  never  regretted  my  surrender,  Mr.  Coote.  (With 
a  sigh.)  Ah,  me  1  We  women  are  strange  creatures. 

BOBBY.    I  don't  believe  Sandy  would  mind  if  I  did  shoot  myself. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Mr.  Coote.  She  is  very 
warm-hearted.  I'm  sure  it  would  upset  her  a  good  deal.  Oh  no, 
you  are  taking  too  gloomy  a  view  of  the  situation,  I  am  sure  of  it. 

BOBBY.  Well,  I  shan't  shoot  myself,  but  I  shan't  propose  to 
her  again.  I  know  when  I'm  not  wanted. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  But  we  do  want  you,  Mr.  Coote.  Both  my 
husband  and  I 

BOBBY.  I  say,  I'd  much  rather  not  talk  about  it,  if  you  don't 
mind.  I  practically  promised  her  that  I  wouldn't  say  anything 
to  you  this  time. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  What,  not  say  anything  to  her  only  mother  ? 
But  how  should  I  know  ii  I  were  to  call  you  "  Bobby,"  or  not  ? 

BOBBY.  Well,  of  course — I  mean  I  haven't  really  said  anything, 
have  I  ?  Nothing  she'd  really  mind.  She's  so  funny  about  things. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  She  is  indeed,  Mr.  Coote.  I  don't  know  where 
she  gets  it  from.  Neither  Henry  nor  I  are  in  the  least  funny.  It 
was  all  the  result  of  being  christened  in  that  irreligious  way — I 
quite  thought  he  said  Millicent — and  reading  all  those  books,  instead 
of  visiting  the  sick  as  I  used  to  do.  I  was  quite  a  little  Red  Riding 
Hood  until  Henry  sprang  at  me  so  fiercely.  (MB.  KNOWLE  and 
JANE  come  in  by  the  window,  and  she  turns  round  towards  them. 
JANE  goes  to  chair  o.  and  sits,  after  putting  the  chair  straight.  MB. 
KNOWLE  goes  to  settee  B.  and  sits  reading  a  paper.)  Ah,  there  you 
both  are.  I  was  wondering  where  you  had  got  to.  Mr.  Coote  has 
been  telling  me  all  about  his  prospects  in  the  city.  So  comforting. 
Jane,  you  didn't  get  your  feet  wet,  I  hope. 

JANE.     It's  quite  dry,  Aunt  Mary. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  It's  a  most  beautiful  night,  my  dear.  We've 
been  talking  to  the  fairies — haven't  we,  Jane  ? 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  Well,  as  long  as  you  didn't  get  cold.  Did  you 
Bee  Sandy  ? 

MB.  KNOWLB.  We  didn't  see  anyone  but  Titania — and  Peters. 
He  had  an  appointment,  apparently — but  not  with  Titania. 

JANK.    He  is  walking  out  with  Alice,  I  think. 


12  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Aca  L 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Well,  Melisande  will  have  to  talk  to  Alice  in  the 
morning.  I  always  warned  you,  Henry,  about  the  danger  of  having 
an  unmarried  chauffeur  on  the  premises.  I  always  felt  it  was  a 
mistake. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  Apparently,  my  dear,  Peters  feels  as  strongly 
about  it  as  you.  He  is  doing  his  best  to  remedy  the  error. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (rising  and  moving  up  c.  BOBBY  rises  also).  Well, 
I  must  be  going  to  bed.  I  have  been  through  a  good  deal  to-night ; 
more  than  any  of  you  know  about. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (cheerfully).  What'i  the  matter,  my  love  1  la- 
digestion  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Beyond  saying  that  it  is  not  indigestion,  Henry, 
my  lips  are  sealed.  I  shall  suffer  my  cross — my  mental  cross — in 
•ilence. 

JANE.    Shall  I  come  with  you,  Aunt  Mary  f 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (c.).  In  five  minutes,  dear.  (To  Heaven)  My 
only  daughter  has  left  me,  and  gone  into  the  night.  Fortunately 
my  niece  has  offered  to  help  me  out  of  my — to  help  me.  (Holding 
tut  her  hand.)  Good  night,  Mr.  Coote. 

BOBBY  (going  to  her).    Good  night,  Mrs.  Knowle. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Good  night !  And  remember  (in  a  loud  whisper) 
what  Shakespeare  said.  (She  presses  his  hand  and  holds  it.)  Good 
night  1  Good  night !  .  .  .  Good  night  I 

(BOBBY  goes  up  to  door  L.) 

MR.  KNOWLE  (rising).  Shakespeare  said  so  many  things.  Among 
others,  he  said,  "  Good  night,  good  night,  parting  is  such  sweet 
sorrow,  that  I  could  say  good  night  till  it  be  morrow."  (MRS.  KNOWLE 
looks  at  him  severely,  and  then,  without  saying  anything,  goes  over  to 
him  and  holds  up  her  cheek.)  Good  night,  my  dear.  (He  kisses  her.) 
Sleep  well.  (He  sits  down  again.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE.    In  five  minutes,  Jane. 

JANE.    Yes,  Aunt  Mary. 

(MBS.  KNOWLE  goes  to  the  door  L.,  BOBBY  opens  it  for  her.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (at  the  door).  1  shall  not  sleep  well.  I  shall  lie 
awake  all  night.  Dr.  Anderson  will  be  very  much  distressed.  "  Dr. 
Anderson,"  I  shall  say,  "  it  is  not  your  fault.  I  lay  awake  all  night, 
thinking  of  my  loved  ones."  In  five  minutes,  Jane. 

(She  goes  out.) 
(BOBBY  moves  to  the  casement  after  shutting  the  door.) 

MR.  KNOWLE  (rising).  An  exacting  programme.  Well,  I  shall 
be  in  the  library,  if  anybody  wants  to  think  of  me — or  say  good  night 
to  me — or  anything  like  that. 

JANE  (L.O.).  Then  I'd  better  say  good  night  to  yon  now,  Uaoto 
Henry.  (She  goes  up  to  him.) 


ACT  L]  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  13 

MB.  KNOWLE  (kissing  her).    Good  night,  dear. 

JANE.     Good  night. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  If  there's  anybody  else  who  wants  to  kiss  me— 
(moving  up  to  BOBBY)  what  about  you,  Bobby  ?  Or  will  you  come 
into  the  library  and  have  a  smoke  first  ? 

BOBBY.  Oh,  I  shall  be  going  to  bed  directly,  I  think.  Ratler 
tired  to-day,  somehow. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  Then  good  night  to  you  also.  Dear  me,  what  a 
business  this  is.  Sandy  has  left  us  for  ever,  I  understand.  If 
she  should  come  back,  Jane,  and  wishes  to  kiss  the  top  of  my  head, 
•he  will  find  it  in  the  library — just  above  the  back  of  the  arm -chair, 
nearest  the  door. 

(He  goes  out  L.) 

JANE  (sitting  on  settee  B.).     Did  Sandy  go  out  into  the  garden  ? 

BOBBY  (gloomily,  coming  down  below  settee  L.).  Yes — about  five 
minutes  ago. 

JANE  (timidly,  after  a  pause).    I'm  so  sorry,  Bobby. 

BOBBY  (walking  slowly  up  c.).  Thanks,  it's  awfully  decent  of  you. 
(After  a  pause.)  Don't  let's  talk  about  it. 

JANE.  Of  course  I  won't  if  it  hurts  you,  Bobby.  But  I  felt  I 
had  to  say  something,  I  felt  so  sorry.  You  didn't  mind,  did  you  ? 

BOBBY.  It's  awfully  decent  of  you  to  mind.  (Going  to  mirror 
*p  B.). 

JANE  (gently).     I  mind  very  much  when  my  friends  are  unhappy. 

BOBBY.  Thanks  awfully.  (He  buttons  his  coat,  and  looks  at 
himself.)  I  say,  do  you  see  anything  wrong  with  it  ?  (Coming  down  c.) 

JANE.    Wrong  with  what  ? 

BOBBY.    My  clothes.    (He  revolves  slowly.) 

JANE.     Of  course  not.     They  fit  beautifully. 

BOBBY.  Sandy's  so  funny  about  things.  I  don't  know  what  she 
means  half  the  time. 

JANE.  Of  course,  I'm  very  fond  of  Melisande,  but  I  do  see  what 
you  mean.  She's  so  (searching  for  the  right  word) — so  romantic. 

BOBBY  (eagerly).  Yes,  that's  just  it.  It  takes  a  bit  of  living 
up  to.  I  say,  have  a  cigarette,  won't  you  ?  (lie  takes  out  hit 
ease). 

JANE.  No,  thank  you.  (BOBBY  sits  on  the  settee  near  to  JANE.) 
Of  course,  I'm  very  fond  of  Melisande,  but  I  do  feel  sometimes  that 
I  don't  altogether  envy  the  man  who  marries  her. 

BOBBY.    I  say,  do  you  really  feel  that  ? 

JANE.    Yes.     She's  too  (getting  the  right  word  at  last) — too  romantic. 

BOBBY.  You're  about  right,  you  know.  I  mean  she  talks  about 
doing  deeds  of  derring-do.  Well,  I  mean  that's  all  very  well,  but 
when  one  marries  and  settles  down — you  know  what  I  mean  ? 

JANE.  Exactly.  That's  just  how  I  feel  about  it.  As  I  said  to 
Melisande  only  this  evening,  this  is  the  twentieth  century.  Well, 
I  happen  to  Ilk*  the  twentieth  century.  That's  all. 


24  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Ao*  t 

BOBBY.    I  see  what  you  mean. 

JANE.  It  may  be  very  unromantic  of  me,  but  I  like  men  to  be 
keen  on  games,  and  to  wear  the  clothes  that  everybody  else  wears—- 
as long  as  they  fit  well,  of  course — and  to  talk  about  the  ordinary 
things  that  everybody  talks  about.  Of  course,  Melisande  would 
say  that  that  was  very  stupid  and  unromantic  of  me 

BOBBY.     I  don't  think  it  is  at  all. 

JANE.  How  awfully  nice  of  you  to  say  that,  Bobby.  You  do 
understand  so  wonderfully. 

BOBBY  (with  a  laugh).  I  say,  that's  rather  funny.  I  was  just 
thinking  the  same  about  you. 

JANE.  I  say,  were  you  really  t  I'm  so  glad.  I  like  to  feel  that 
we  are  really  friends,  and  that  we  understand  each  other.  I  don't 
know  whether  I'm  different  from  other  girls,  but  I  don't  make 
friends  very  easily. 

BOBBY.    Do  you  mean  men  or  women  friends  ? 

JANE.  Both.  In  fact,  but  for  Melisande  and  you,  I  can  hardly 
think  of  any — not  what  you  call  real  friends. 

BOBBY.  Melisande  is  a  great  friend,  isn't  she  ?  You  tell  each 
other  all  your  secrets,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  don't  you  ? 

JANE.  Yes,  we're  great  friends,  but  there  are  some  things  that 
I  could  never  tell  even  her.  (Impressively.)  I  could  never  show 
her  my  inmost  heart. 

BOBBY.  I  don't  believe  about  your  not  having  any  men  friends. 
I  bet  there  are  hundreds  of  them,  as  keen  on  you  as  any- 
thing. 

JANE.  I  wonder.  It  would  be  rather  nice  to  think  there  were. 
That  sounds  horrid,  doesn't  it,  but  a  girl  can't  help  wanting  to  be 
liked. 

BOBBY.  Of  course  she  can't;  nobody  can.  I  don't  think  it's 
a  bit  horrid. 

JANE.  How  nice  of  you.  (She  gets  up  and  moves  c.)  Well,  I 
must  be  going,  I  suppose. 

BOBBY.    What's  the  hurry  ?     (Rises  also.) 

JANE.    Aunt  Mary.    She  said  five  minutes.    (She  goes  up  L.) 

BOBBY  (coming  towards  JANE).  And  how  long  will  you  be  with 
her  ?  You'll  come  down  again,  won't  you  ? 

JANE.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I'm  rather  tired  this  evening. 
(Holding  out  her  hand.)  Good  night,  Bobby. 

BOBBY  (taking  it).  Oh,  but  look  here,  I'll  come  and  light  your 
candle  for  you. 

JANE.    How  nice  of  you  I 

(She  manages  to  get  her  hand  back.) 

BOBBY  (crossing  her  to  the  door),  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  go  to 
bed  myself. 

JANE.    Well,  if  you  are,  we'd  better  put  the  lights  out. 
BOBBY.    Righto.    (He  puts  them  out  by  means  of  the  switch  abovt 


Ao»  L]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  2A 

the  door.)    I  say,  what  a  night  1     (The  moonlight  streams  through  the 
windows  on  them.)    You'll  hardly  want  a  candle. 

(BOBBY  opens  and  holds  the  door  for  her  and  they  go  out  together.) 

(The  hall  is  empty.  Suddenly  the  front  door  bell  is  heard  to  ring. 
After  a  little  interval,  ALICE  comes  in  L.,  turns  on  the  light,  and  looks 
round  the  hall.  She  is  walking  across  the  hall  to  the  drawing-room 
when  MB.  KNOWLE  comes  in  from  behind  her,  and  she  turns  round.) 

MB.  KNOWLE  (c.).     Were  you  looking  for  me,  Alice  ? 

ALICE  (B.C.).    Yes,  sir.    There's  a  gentleman  at  the  front  door,  sir. 

MB.  KNOWLE.     Rather  late  for  a  call,  isn't  it  ? 

ALICE.  He's  in  a  motor-car,  sir,  and  it's  broken  down,  and  he 
wondered  if  you'd  lend  him  a  little  petrol.  He  told  me  to  say  how 
very  sorry  he  was  to  trouble  you 

MB.  KNOWLE.  But  he's  not  troubling  me  at  all — particularly  il 
Peters  is  about.  I  dare  say  you  could  find  Peters,  Alice,  and  if  it'a 
not  troubling  Peters  too  much,  perhaps  he  would  see  to  it.  (Moving 
to  the  settee  B.)  And  ask  the  gentleman  to  come  in.  We  can't  keep 
him  standing  on  the  door-mat. 

ALICE.     Yes,  sir.     (Going  L.)    I  did  ask  him  before,  sir. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  Well,  ask  him  this  time  in  the  voice  of  one  who 
is  about  to  bring  in  the  whisky. 

ALICE.    Yes,  sir.     (Goes  to  door  L.) 

MB.  KNOWLE  (sitting  on  settee  B.).     And  then — bring  in  the  whisky. 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir.  (She  goes  out,  and  returns  a  moment  later  and 
comes  to  L.o.)  He  says,  thank  you  very  much,  sir,  but  he  really  won't 
come  in,  and  he's  very  sorry  indeed  to  trouble  you  about  the  petrol. 

MB.  KNOWLE.     Ah  !    I'm  afraid  we  were  too  allusive  for  him. 

ALICE  (hopefully).    Yes,  sir. 

MB.  KNOWLB.  Well,  we  won't  be  quite  so  subtle  this  time. 
Present  Mr.  Knowle's  compliments,  and  say  that  I  shall  be  very 
much  honoured  il  he  will  drink  a  glass  of  whisky  with  me  before 
proceeding  on  his  journey. 

ALICE.     Yes,  sir.     (She  turn*  to  the  dotvr  again.) 

MB.  KNOWLB.      And  then — bring  in  the  whisky. 

ALICE.  Yes,  sir.  (She  goes  out.  In  a  little  while  she  comes  batk 
followed  by  the  stranger,  who  i*  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  long 
doak.)  Mr.  Gervase  Mallory. 

(She  goes  out.) 

MB.  KNOWLB  (rising).  How-do-you-do,  Mr.  Mallory?  I'm 
very  glad  to  see  you.  (They  shake  hands  c.) 

GEBVASE.  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I  really  must  apologize  foi 
bothering  you  like  this.  I'm  afraid  I'm  being  an  awful  nuisance, 

MB.  KNOWLE.    Not  at  all.    Are  you  going  far  ? 

GEBVASE.  Collingham.  I  live  at  Little  Mailing,  about  twenty 
miles  away.  Do  you  know  it  f 


26  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Ac*  L 

MB.  KNOWLB.  Yes.  I've  been  through  it.  I  didn't  know  it  was 
M  far  away  as  that. 

GEBVASE  (with  a  laugh).  Well,  perhaps  only  by  the  way  I  came. 
The  fact  is  I've  lost  myself  rather. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  I'm  afraid  you  have.  Collingham.  You  oughtn't 
to  have  come  within  five  miles  of  us. 

GEBVASE.    I  suppose  I  oughtn't. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  Well,  all  the  more  reason  for  having  a  drink  now 
that  you  are  here. 

GEBVASE.    It's  awfully  kind  of  you. 

(ALICE  comes  in  and  goes  to  the  table  at  the  head  of  the  settee  L.) 

MB.  KNOWLB.  Ah,  here  we  are.  (ALICE  puts  down  the  whisky.) 
You've  told  Peters  ? 

ALICE.     Yes,  sir.    He's  looking  after  it  now. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  That's  right.  (ALICE  goes  out.)  You'll  have 
•ome  whisky,  won't  you  ?  (Coming  to  the  table.) 

GEBVASE.     Thanks  very  much. 

MB.  KNOWLE.  And  do  take  your  coat  off,  won't  you,  and  make 
yourself  comfortable  ? 

GEBVASB.    Er — thanks.    I  don't  think 

(He  smiles  to  himself  and  keeps  his  cloak  on.) 

MB.  KNOWLB  (busy  with  the  drinks).    Say  wheat 
GEBVASB.    Thank  you. 
MB.  KNOWLE.    And  soda  f 
GEBVASE.    Please.  .  .  .  Thanks  I 

(He  takes  the  glass,) 

MB.  KNOWLB  (looking  up).  But  do  take  your  coat  off,  won't  yom, 
and  sit  down  and  be  comfortable  ? 

GEBVASE.  Er — thanks  very  much,  but  I  don't  think (Witk 

a  shrug  and  a  smile.)  Oh,  well  1 

MB.  KNOWLE  (giving  himself  a  drink).  I'm  so  glad  you  came, 
because  I  have  a  horror  of  drinking  alone.  Even  when  my  wife 
gives  me  cough-mixture  (Goes  to  settee  B.),  I  insist  on  somebody  else 
in  the  house  having  cough-mixture  too.  A  glass  of  cough-mixture 
with  an  old  friend  just  before  going  to  bed (He  sits  on  settee  B.) 

(During  MB.  KNOWLB'S  sentence  GEBVASB  has  put  down  his  glass  and 
taken  off  his  cloak.  He  is  infancy  dress — the  wonderful  young  Prince 
in  Hue  and  gold  of  MELISANDE'S  dream.  He  comes  down  to  chair 
0.  and  tits.  Just  as  he  sits,  MB.  KNOWLB  looks  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment.) 

MB.  KNOWLB  (pointing  to  his  whisky  glass).  But  I  haven't  even 
begun  it  yet.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it's  the  port. 

GEBVASB  (laughing).  I'm  awfully  sorry.  You  must  wonder 
what  on  earth  I'm  doing. 


ACT  L]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  27 

MR.  KNOWLB.  No,  no ;  I  wondered  what  on  earth  Pd  been 
doing. 

GERVASB.  You  see,  I'm  going  to  a  fancy  dress  dance  at  Colling- 
ham. 

MR.  KNOWLE.    You  relieve  my  mind  considerably. 

GERVASE.  That's  why  I  didn't  want  to  come  in — or  take  my 
eloak  off. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (inspecting  him).  It  becomes  you  extraordinarily 
well,  if  I  may  say  so. 

GERVASE.  Oh,  thanks  very  much.  But  one  feels  rather  absurd 
in  it  when  other  people  are  in  ordinary  clothes. 

MR.  KNOWLB.  On  the  contrary,  you  make  other  people  feel 
absurd.  I  don't  know  that  that  particular  style  would  have  suited 
me,  but  (looking  at  himself)  I  am  sure  that  I  could  have  found  some- 
thing more  expressive  of  my  emotions  than  this. 

GERVASH  You're  quite  right.  "  Dresa  does  make  a  difference, 
Davy." 

MR.  KNOWLE.    It  does  indeed. 

GERVASE.  I  feel  it's  almost  wicked  of  me  to  be  drinking  a  whisky 
and  soda. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Very  wicked.  (Taking  out  his  case.)  Have  a 
cigarette,  too  ? 

GERVASE.    May  I  have  one  of  my  own! 

MR.  KNOWLE.    Do. 

GERVASE  (feeling  for  it).  If  I  can  find  it.  (Putting  glass  on  table.) 
They  were  very  careless  about  pockets  in  the  old  days.  I  had  a 
special  one  put  in  somewhere,  only  it's  rather  difficult  to  get  at.  ... 
Ah,  here  it  is.  (He  takes  a  cigarette  from  his  case,  and  after  try- 
ing to  put  the  case  back  in  his  pocket  again,  places  it  on  the 
talk.) 

MR.  KNOWLE  (rising).    Match  ? 

GERVASE  (rising).  Thanks.  (Picking  up  hit  whisky.)  Well, 
here's  luck,  and — my  most  grateful  thanks. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (raising  his  glass  and  sitting  again  on  settee  R). 
May  you  slay  all  your  dragons. 

GERVASE.    Thank  you.    (He  sits.) 

(They  drink.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  now  about  Collingham.  I  don't  know  if 
you  saw  a  map  outside  in  the  hall. 

GERVASE.  I  saw  it,  but  I  am  afraid  I  didn't  look  at  it.  I  was 
too  much  interested  in  your  prints. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (eagerly).  You  don't  say  that  you  are  interested  in 
prints  ? 

GERVASE.    Very  much — as  an  entire  amateur. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Most  of  the  young  men  who  come  here  think 
that  the  art  began  and  ended  with  Kirchner.  If  you  are  really 
interested,  I  have  something  in  the  library — but  of  course  I  mustn't 


28  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Aci  I. 

take  up  your  time  now.  If  you  could  bear  to  come  over  another 
day — after  all,  we  are  neighbours 

GERVASE.     It's  awfully  nice  of  you ;    I  should  love  it. 

MR.  KNOWLB.  Hedgling  is  the  name  of  the  village.  I  mention 
it  because  you  seem  to  have  lost  your  way  so  completely 

GERVASE.  Oh,  by  Jove,  now  I  know  where  I  am.  It's  so  different 
in  the  moonlight.  I'm  lunching  this  way  to-morrow.  Might  I 
come  on  afterwards  ?  And  then  I  can  return  your  petrol,  thank 
you  for  your  hospitality,  and  expose  my  complete  ignorance  of  old 
prints,  all  in  one  afternoon. 

MR.  KNOWLE.    Well,  but  you  must  come  anyhow.    Come  to  tea. 

GERVASE.  That  will  be  ripping.  (Getting  up.)  Well,  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  be  getting  on.  (He  picks  up  his  cloak  and  goes  up  L.C.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  We  might  just  have  a  look  at  that  map  on  the 
way.  (Going  L.) 

GERVASE.     Oh  yes,  do  let'i. 

(They  go  to  the  door  together,  and  stand  for  a  moment  looking  at  th* 
easement  windows,) 

ME.  KNOWLE  (at  the  switch).  It  really  is  a  wonderful  night.  (He 
switches  off  the  lights,  and  the  moon  streams  through  the  windows.) 
Just  look. 

GERVASE  (with  a  deep  sigh).    Wonderful  1 

(They  go  out  together.) 

(The  hall  is  empty  for  a  moment.  Voices  are  heard.  Then  GERVASI 
reappears.  He  has  forgotten  his  cigarette-case.  He  goes  to  the 
talk.) 

(MELISANDE  comes  in  by  the  French  windows.  He  hears  her,  and 
at  the  same  moment  she  sees  him.  She  gives  a  little  wondering  cry. 
It  is  He!  The  knight  of  her  dreams.  They  stand  gazing  at  each 
other.  .  .  .  Silently  he  makes  obeisance  to  her  ;  silently  the  acknov* 
ledges  it.) 

(The  CURTAJM  descend*.) 


ACT  n 

It  <»  tev«n  o'clock  on  a  beautiful  midsummer  morning.  The  scene  i» 
a  glade  in  a  wood  a  little  way  above  the  village  of  Hedgling.  A  clock 
chimes  seven. 

GBRVASB  MALLORY,  still  in  his  fancy  dress,  but  with  his  cloak  on, 
comes  in  R.U.E.  He  looks  round  him  and  says,  "  By  Jove,  how 
jolly !  "  He  takes  off  his  cloak,  throws  it  down  on  bank  L.C.,  stretches 
himself,  turns  round,  and,  seeing  the  view  behind  him,  goes  to  look 
at  it.  While  he  is  looking  he  hears  an  unmelodious  whistling.  He 
turns  round  with  a  start ;  the  whistling  goes  on  ;  he  says  "  Good 
Lord  !  "  and  tries  to  get  to  his  cloak.  It  is  too  late.  ERN,  a  very 
email  boy,  comes  through  the  trees  L.  into  the  glade.  GERVASB 
gives  a  sigh  of  resignation  and  stands  there.  ERN  stops  in  the 
middle  of  his  tune  and  gazes  at  him. 

ERN  (L.).  Oo — er !  Oo  1  (He  circles  slowly  round  GERVASB.) 
Oo  !  Look !  (Now  R.C.) 

GERVASE.  Yes,  it  is  a  bit  dressy,  isn't  it  ?  Come  round  to  the 
back  (ERN  moves  round  to  the  back) — take  a  good  look  at  it  while 
you  can.  That's  right.  .  .  .  Been  all  round  ?  Good  1 

ERN.    Oo  ! 

GERVASB.  Well,  I  can't  go  on  standing  here  while  you  say  "  Oo." 
Do  you  mind  if  I  sit  down  ?  (GERVASE  is  R.C.  and  ERN  L.O.)  I 
gather  that  I  have  your  consent.  I  thank  you.  (Sits  on  bank  R.) 

ERN.  Oo !  Look !  (He  follows  up  and  points  at  GERVASE'S 
legs  and  then  sits  on  ground.) 

GERVASE.  What  is  it  now  f  My  legs  I  Oh,  but  surely  you've 
noticed  those  before  ! 

ERN.    Oo  1 

GERVASB.  Really,  I  don't  understand  you.  I  came  up  here  for 
a  walk  in  a  perfectly  ordinary  blue  suit,  and  you  do  nothing  but  say 
"  Oo."  What  does  your  father  wear  when  he's  ploughing  ?  I 
suppose  you  don't  walk  all  round  him  and  say  "  Oo  !  "  By  the 
way,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  your  name.  (ERN  gazes  at  him  dumbly.) 
Oh,  come  !  They  must  have  told  you  your  name  when  you  got  up 
this  morning. 

ERN  (smiling  sheepishly).    Era. 

GERVASE  (bowing).  How-do-you-do  f  I  am  very  glad  to  meet 
you,  Mr.  Hearne.  My  name  is  Mallory.  (ERN  grins.)  Thank  you. 

29 


SO  THE  ROMANTIC   AGE.  [ACT  II 

ERN  (tapping  himself).    I'm  Ern. 

GERVASE.  Yes,  I'm  Mallory,  Ern.  We  can't  keep  on  saying 
this  to  each  other,  you  know,  because  then  we  never  get  any  farther. 
Once  an  introduction  is  over,  Mr.  Hearne,  we  are 

ERN.    Ern. 

GBRVASE.  Yes,  I  know.  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it.  But  now 
• Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean.  Ern — short  for  Ernest  I 

ERN  (nodding).    They  calls  me  Ern. 

GERVASK.  That's  very  friendly  of  them.  Being  more  of  a 
stranger  I  shall  call  you  Ernest.  Well,  Ernest  (getting  up) — just 
excuse  me  a  moment,  will  you  ?  Very  penetrating  bark  this  tree 
has.  It  must  be  a  Pomeranian.  (He  folds  his  cloak  upon  it  and  sit* 
down  again.)  That's  better.  Now  we  can  talk  comfortably  together. 
I  don't  know  if  there's  anything  you  particularly  want  to  discuss 
—nothing  ? — well,  then,  I  will  suggest  the  subject  of  breakfast. 

ERN  (grinning).    'Ad  my  breakfast. 

GERVASE.    You've  had  yours  ?    You  selfish  brute  1  .  .  • 

ERN.    Bacon  fat.     (He  makes  reminiscent  noises.) 

GERVASE.  Don't  keep  on  going  through  all  the  courses.  Well, 
what  happened  was  this.  My  car  broke  down.  I  suppose  you 
never  had  a  motor-car  of  your  own. 

ERN.    Don't  like  moty-cars. 

GERVASE.  Well,  really,  after  last  night  I'm  inclined  to  agree 
with  you.  Well,  no,  I  oughtn't  to  say  that,  because,  if  it  hadn't 
broken  down,  I  should  never  have  seen  Her.  Ernest,  I  don't  know 
if  you're  married  or  anything  of  that  sort,  but  I  think  even  your 
rough  stern  heart  would  have  been  moved  by  that  vision  of  loveli- 
ness which  I  saw  last  night.  (He  is  silent  for  a  little,  thinking  of 
her.)  Well,  then,  I  lost  my  way.  There  I  was — ten  miles  from 
anywhere — in  the  middle  of  what  was  supposed  to  be  a  short  cut 
— late  at  night — Midsummer  Night — what  would  you  have  done, 
Ernest  f 

ERN.    Gone  'ome. 

GERVASE.  Don't  be  silly.  How  could  I  go  home  when  I  didn't 
know  where  home  was,  and  it  was  a  hundred  miles  away,  and  I'd 
just  seen  the  Princess  ?  No,  I  did  what  your  father  or  your  Uncle 
George  or  any  wise  man  would  have  done,  I  sat  m  the  oar  and 
thought  of  Hex. 

ERN.    Ool 

GERVASE.  You  are  surprised  I  Ah,  but  if  you'd  seen  her.  .  .  . 
Have  you  ever  been  alone  in  the  moonlight  on  Midsummer  Night 
—I  don't  mean  just  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  all  through  the  night 
until  the  dawn  came  ?  You  aren't  really  alone,  you  know.  All 
round  you  there  are  little  whisperings  going  on,  little  breathings, 
little  rustlings.  Somebody  is  out  hunting ;  somebody  stirs  in  his 
sleep  as  he  dreams  again  the  hunt  of  yesterday ;  somebody  up  in 
the  tree-tops  pipes  suddenly  to  the  dawn,  and  then,  finding  that 
the  dawn  has  not  come,  puts  his  silly  little  head  back  under  his 


H.J  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  31 

wing  and  goes  to  sleep  again.  .  .  .  And  the  fairies  are  out.  Do 
you  believe  in  fairies,  Ernest  t  You  would  have  believed  in  them 
last  night.  I  heard  them  whispering. 

ERN.    Oo ! 

GERVASE  (coming  out  of  his  thoughts  with  a  laugh).  Well,  of  course, 
I  can't  expect  you  to  believe  me.  But  don't  go  about  thinking 
that  there's  nothing  in  the  world  but  bacon  fat  and  bull's-eyes. 
Well,  then,  I  suppose  I  went  to  sleep,  for  I  woke  up  suddenly  and 
It  was  morning,  the  most  wonderful  sparkling  magical  morning— 
but,  of  course,  you  were  just  settling  down  to  your  bacon  fat  then. 

ERN.     Oo  !     (He  makes  more  reminiscent  noises.) 

GERVASE.  Yes,  that's  just  what  I  said.  I  said  to  myself, 
breakfast. 

ERN.    'Ad  my  breakfast. 

GERVASE.  Yes,  but  I  'adn't.  I  said  to  myself,  "  Surely  my  old 
friend,  Ernest,  whom  I  used  to  shoot  bison  with  in  the  Himalayas, 
has  got  an  estate  somewhere  in  these  parts.  I  will  go  and  share 
his  simple  meal  with  him."  So  I  got  out  of  the  car,  and  I  did  what 
you  didn't  do,  young  man,  I  had  a  bathe  in  the  river,  and  then  a 
dry  on  a  pocket-handkerchief — one  of  my  sister's,  unfortunately — 
and  then  I  came  out  to  look  for  breakfast.  And  suddenly,  whom 
should  I  meet  but  my  old  friend,  Ernest,  the  same  hearty  fellow, 
the  same  inveterate  talker  as  when  we  shot  dragon-flies  together 
in  the  swamps  of  Malay.  (Shaking  his  hand.)  Ernest,  old  boy, 
pleased  to  meet  you.  What  about  breakfast  f 

ERN.    'Ad  my 

GERVASE.  S'sh.  Now  then — to  business.  Do  you  mind  looking 
the  other  way  while  I  try  to  find  my  purse.  (Feeling  for  it.)  Every 
morning  when  you  get  up,  you  should  say,  "  Thank  God,  I'm  getting 
a  big  boy  now  and  I've  got  pockets  in  my  trousers."  And  you 
should  feel  very  sorry  for  the  poor  people  who  lived  in  fairy  books 
and  had  no  trousers  to  put  pockets  in.  Ah,  here  we  are.  Now 
then,  Ernest,  attend  very  carefully.  Where  do  you  live  ! 

ERN.    'Ome. 

GERVASE.  You  mean,  yon  haven't  got  a  flat  of  your  own  yet  f 
Well,  how  far  away  is  your  home  f  (ERN  grins  and  says  nothing.)  A 
mile  !  (ERN  continues  to  grin.)  Half  a  mile  f  (RaN  grin*.)  Six 
Inches ! 

ERN  (pointing  L.).    Down  there. 

GERVASE.  Good.  Now  then,  I  want  you  to  take  this— (giving 
\im  half-a-orown) 

ERN.    Oo  I    (Rises.) 

GERVASE  (rises).  Yes,  I  thought  that  would  more  you — and 
I  want  you  to  ask  your  mother  if  you  can  bring  me  some  breakfast 
up  here.  Now,  listen  very  carefully,  because  we  are  coming  to  the 
important  part.  Hard-boiled  eggs,  bread,  butter,  and  a  bottle  of 
milk — and  anything  else  she  likes.  Tell  her  that  it's  most  important, 
because  your  old  friend  Mallory  whom  you  shot  white  mice  with 


U  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  fAcr  IL 

in  Egypt  is  starving  by  the  roadside.  And  if  you  come  back  here 
with  a  basket  quickly,  I'll  give  you  as  many  bull's-eyes  as  you  can 
eat  in  a  week.  (Very  earnestly.)  Now,  Ernest,  with  all  the  passion 
and  emotion  of  which  I  am  capable  before  breakfast,  I  ask  you : 
have  you  got  that  ? 

EBN  (nodding).    Going  'ome.    (He  looks  at  the  half-crown  again.) 

GEBVASE.  Going  'ome.  Yes.  But — returning  with  breakfast. 
Starving  man — lost  in  forest — return  with  basket — save  life.  (To 
himself.)  I  believe  I  could  explain  it  better  to  a  Chinaman.  (T« 
EBN.)  Now  then,  off  you  go. 

EBN  (as  he  is  going  off  L.  turns  half-way).    Oo ! 

GEBVASE  (nodding  to  him).    Yes,  I'm  still  "  Oo.H 

EBN  (as  he  goes  off  L.).    'Ad  my  breakfast. 

GEBVASE.    Yes,  and  I  wonder  if  I  shall  get  mine. 

(SusAN  starts  tinging  off  stage.) 
SUSAN  (singing) — 

Jog  on,  jog  on  the  footpath  ir&y  and  merrily  hent  the  stile,  ah  t 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day,  your  sad  tires  in  a  mile,  ah  I 

(GEBVASE  walks  slowly  after  EBN  and  stands  looking  at  him  as  he  goes 
down  the  hill.  Then,  turning  round,  he  hears  the  other  stranger  in 
the  distance.) 

GEBVASE.  Hullo,  here's  another  of  them.  (He  walks  towards 
the  bank  B.)  Horribly  crowded  the  country's  getting  nowadays. 
(He  puts  on  his  cloak,  waits  down  B.) 

(A  moment  later  a  travelling  Pedlar,  name  of  SUSAN,  comes  in  singing, 
B.U.E.    He  sees  GEBVASE.) 

SUSAN  (L.O.  with  a  bow).    Good  morning,  sir. 

GEBVASE  (looking  round).    Good  morning. 

SUSAN.  I  had  thought  to  be  alone.  I  trust  my  singing  did  not 
discommode  you. 

GEBVASE.    Not  at  all.    I  like  it.    Do  go  on. 

SUSAN.    Alas,  the  song  ends  there. 

GEBVASB.    Oh,  well,  couldn't  we  have  it  again  f 

SUSAN.  Perhaps  later,  sir,  if  yon.  insist.  (Taking  off  his  lox.\ 
Would  it  inconvenience  you  if  I  rested  here  for  a  few  minutes  ? 
(Sitting  L.O.) 

GEBVASE.  Not  a  bit.  It's  a  jolly  place  to  rest  at,  isn't  itf 
Save  you  come  far  this  morning  1  (Sits  on  bank  R.O.) 

SUSAN.  Three  or  four  miles — a  mere  nothing  on  a  morning  like 
this.  Besides,  what  does  the  Great  William  say  f 

GEBVASE.    I  don't  think  I  know  him.    What  does  he  say  f 

SUSAN.  A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  way,  your  sad  tires  in  • 
mile,  ah ! 

GEBVASB.    Oh,  Shakespeare,  yes. 

SUSAN.    And  why,  you  ask,  am  I  merry  I 


ACT  IL]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  83 

GERVASE.  Well,  I  didn't,  but  I  was  just  going  to.  Why  ar« 
you  merry  t 

SUSAN.    Can  you  not  guess  ?    What  does  the  Great  Ralph  say  ! 

GERVASE  (trying  hard).  The  Great  Ralph.  .  .  .  No,  you've  got 
me  there.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  him.  Well,  what  does  he 
say? 

SUSAN.  Give  me  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make  the  pomp 
of  Empires  ridiculous. 

GERVASB.    Emerson,  of  course.    Silly  of  me. 

SUSAN.    So  you  see,  sir — I  am  well,  the  day  is  well,  all  is  well. 

GERVASE.  Sir,  I  congratulate  you.  In  the  words  of  the  Great 
Percy — (to  himself)  that's  got  him. 

SUSAN  (at  a  kss).    The — er— Great  Percy  ? 

GERVASE.    Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit !     (Rises  and  goes  up  o.) 

SUSAN  (eagerly).  I  take  you,  I  take  you  !  Shelley  !  Ah,  there's 
a  poet,  Mr. — er — I  don't  think  I  quite  caught  your  name. 

GERVASE  (coming  down  c.).  Oh  !  My  name's  Gervase  Mallory 
—to  be  referred  to  by  posterity,  I  hope,  as  the  Great  Gervase. 

SUSAN.    Not  a  poet,  too  ? 

GERVASE.    Well,  no,  not  professionally. 

SUSAN.  But  one  with  the  poets  in  spirit — like  myself.  I  am 
very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Mallory.  It  is  most  good-natured  of 
you  to  converse  with  me.  My  name  is  Susan.  (GERVASE  bows.) 
Generally  called  Master  Susan  in  these  parts,  or  sometimes  Gentle- 
man Susan.  I  am  a  travelling  Pedlar  by  profession. 

GERVASE  (sitting  again).    A  delightful  profession,  I  am  sure. 

SUSAN  (opening  his  box).  The  most  delightful  of  all  professions. 
(He  lifts  up  his  box.)  Speaking  professionally  for  the  moment,  if 
I  may  so  far  venture,  you  are  not  in  any  need  of  boot-laces,  buttons, 
or  collar-studs  ? 

GERVASE  (smiling).  Well,  no,  not  at  this  actual  moment.  On 
almost  any  other  day  perhaps — but  no,  not  this  morning.  (Rises.) 

SUSAN.  I  only  just  mentioned  it  in  passing — en  passant,  as  the 
French  say.  (He  brings  out  a  paper  bag  and  begins  to  undo  his  break- 
fast.) Would  the  fact  of  my  oating  my  breakfast  in  this  pleasant 
resting-place  detract  at  all  from  your  appreciation  of  the  beautiful 
day  which  Heaven  has  sent  us  ? 

GERVASE.    Eating  your  what  ?    (Goes  up  above  SUSAN.) 

SUSAN.  My  simple  breakfast.  (He  brings  out  hit  breakfast  of 
bread  and  cheese.) 

GERVASE  (shaking  his  head).  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  really  don't 
think  I  could  bear  it.  Only  five  minutes  ago  Ernest — I  don't 
know  if  you  know  Ernest  ? 

SUSAN.    The  Great  Ernest! 

GERVASE  (indicating  with  his  hand).    No,  the  yery  small  one 
Well,  he  was  telling  me  all  about  the  breakfast  he'd  just  had,  and 
now  you're  showing  me  the  breakfast  you're  just  going  to  have — no, 
bear  it.    (Goes  up  stage.) 


84  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Aci?  H. 

SUSAN.  My  dear  sir,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  would 
do  me  the  honour  of  joining  me  at  my  simple  repast  ? 

GEBVASE  (coming  down  excitedly).  The  honour  of  joining  you  ! — 
the  honour  \  My  dear  Mr.  Susan  !  Now  I  know  why  they  call 
you  Gentleman  Susan.  (Shaking  his  head  sadly.)  But  no.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  you.  I  should  eat  too  much.  Besides,  Ernest 
may  come  back.  No,  I  will  wait.  It  wouldn't  be  fair.  (Goes 
down  R.) 

SUSAN  (having  got  out  his  knife).    Bacon  or  cheese  ! 

GEBVASE  (turns  up  stage).  Cheese — I  mean  bacon — I  mean— I 
say,  you  aren't  serious  ? 

SUSAN  (handing  him  bread  and  cheese).  I  trust  you  will  find  it 
up  to  your  expectations. 

GERVASE  (Reeling  and  taking  it).  I  say,  you  really 

(Solemnly.)  Master  Susan,  with  all  the  passion  and  emotion  o? 
which  I  am  capable  before  breakfast,  I  say  "  Thank  you."  (E« 
takes  a  bite  and  stands.)  Thank  you. 

SUSAN  (eating  also).  Please  do  not  mention  it.  I  am  more  than 
repaid  by  your  company. 

GERVASE.  It  is  charming  of  you  to  say  so,  and  I  am  very  proud 
to  be  your  guest,  but  I  beg  you  to  allow  me  to  pay  for  this  delightful 
cheese.  (Sits  on  bank  R.) 

SUSAN.    No,  no.    I  couldn't  hear  of  it. 

GERVASE.  I  warn  you  that  if  you  will  not  allow  me  to  pay  fo» 
this  delightful  cheese,  I  shall  insist  on  buying  all  your  boot-lace?*. 
Nay,  more,  I  shall  buy  all  your  studs,  and  all  your  buttons.  Yout 
profession  would  then  be  gone. 

SUSAN  (cutting  bread).    Well,  well,  shall  we  say  tuppence  ! 

GERVASE.  Tuppence  for  a  banquet  like  this  ?  My  dear  friend, 
nothing  less  than  half-a-crown  will  satisfy  me. 

SUSAN.    Sixpence.    Not  a  penny  more. 

GERVASE  (rises,  with  a  sigh).  Very  well,  then.  (He  begins  to 
feel  in  his  pocket,  and  in  so  doing  reveals  part  of  his  dress.  SUSAN 
opens  his  eyes  at  it,  and  then  goes  on  eating.  GERVASE  finds  hit  purs* 
and  produces  sixpence,  which  he  gives  to  SUSAN.)  Sir,  I  thank  you. 
(He  resumes  his  breakfast.) 

SUSAN.  You  are  too  generous.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  lor  asking, 
but  you  are  not  by  chance  a  fellow-traveller  upon  the  road  ? 

GERVASB.    Do  you  mean  professionally  ! 

SUSAN.  Yes.  There  is  a  young  fellow,  a  contortionist  and  aword- 
gwalloWer  who  travels  from  village  to  village,  known  locally  in  these 
parts  as  Humphrey  the  Human  Hiatus.  Just  for  a  moment  1 
wondered 

(He  glances  at   GERVASE'S   legs,   which  are  uncovered.    GERVASB 
hastily  wraps  his  coat  round  them.) 

GERVASB.    I   am   not   Humphrey.    No.    Gervase    the    OheeM 

Swallower.  .  .  .  Er — my  ooatumo      - 


ACT  H.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  88 

SUSAH.  Please  say  nothing  more.  It  was  ill-mannered  of  me 
to  have  inquired.  Let  a  man  wear  what  he  likes.  It  ia  a  free  world. 

GEBVASE.     Well,  the  fact  is,  I  have  been  having  a  bathe. 

SUSAN  (with  a  bow).    I  congratulate  you  on  your  bathing  costume. 

GEBVASE.     Not  at  all.    (Sits.) 

SUSAN.    You  live  near  here  then  f 

GEBVASB.    Little  Mailing.     I  came  over  in  a  car. 

SUSAN.    Little  Mailing  ?     That's  about  twenty  miles  away. 

GBBVASE.     Oh,  much  more  than  that  surely. 

SUSAN.    No.    There's  Hedgling  down  there.    (Points  L.) 

GERVASE  (surprised).  Hedgling  ?  Heavens,  how  I  must  hav« 
lost  my  way.  .  .  .  Then  I  have  been  within  a  mile  of  her  all  night. 
And  I  never  knew  1 

SUSAN.    You  are  married,  Mr.  Mallory  I 

GEBVASB.    No.    Not  yet. 

SUSAN.    Get  married. 

GEBVASE.    What  ? 

SUSAN.    Take  my  advice  and  get  married. 

GEBVASE.    You  recommend  it? 

SUSAN.  I  do.  .  .  .  There  is  no  companion  like  a  wife,  if  yon 
marry  the  right  woman. 

GEBVASE.    Oh  ? 

SUSAN.  I  have  been  married  thirty  years.  Thirty  years  ef 
happiness. 

GEBVASE.  But  in  your  profession  you  must  go  away  from  your 
wife  a  good  deal. 

SUSAN  (smiling).    But  then  I  come  back  to  her  a  good  deal. 

GERVASE  (thoughtfully).    Yes,  that  must  be  rather  jolly. 

SUSAN.  Why  do  you  think  I  welcomed  your  company  so  much 
when  I  came  upon  you  here  this  morning  ? 

GEBVASE  (modestly).     Oh,  well 

SUSAN.  It  is  something  to  tell  my  wife  when  I  get  back  to 
her.  When  you  are  married,  every  adventure  becomes  two  adven- 
tures. You  have  your  adventure,  and  then  you  go  back  to  your 
wife  and  have  your  adventure  again.  Perhaps  it  is  a  better  adventure 
that  second  time.  You  can  say  the  things  which  you  didn't  quite 
say  the  first  time,  and  do  the  things  which  you  didn't  quite  do. 
When  my  week's  travels  are  over,  and  I  go  back  to  my  wife,  I  shall 
have  a  whole  week's  happenings  to  tell  her.  They  won't  lose  in 
the  telling,  Mr.  Mallory.  Our  little  breakfast  here  this  morning — 
she  will  love  to  hear  about  that.  I  can  see  her  happy,  excited  fac« 
as  I  tell  her  all  that  I  said  to  you,  and — if  I  can  remember  it — all 
that  you  said  to  me. 

GERVASE  (eagerly).  I  gay,  how  jolly!  (Thoughtfully.)  You 
won't  forget  what  I  said  about  the  Great  Percy  ?  I  thought  that 
was  rather  good. 

SUSAN.  I  hope  it  wasn't  too  good,  Mr.  Mallory.  If  it  was,  I 
•hall  find  myself  telling  it  to  her  as  one  of  my  own  remarks.  That's 


80  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Ao»  IL 

why  I  say  "Get  married."  Then  you  can  make  things  fair  foi 
yourself.  You  can  tell  her  all  the  good  things  of  mine  which  you 
said. 

GERVASB.    But  there  must  be  more  in  marriage  than  that. 

SUSAN.  There  are  a  million  things  in  marriage,  but  companion- 
ship is  at  the  bottom  of  it  alL  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what  companion- 
ship means  ? 

GERVASB.     How  do  you  mean  ?    Literally  t 

SUSAN.  The  derivation  of  it  in  the  dictionary.  It  means  the 
Art  of  having  meals  with  a  person.  Cynics  talk  of  the  impossibility 
of  sitting  opposite  the  same  woman  every  day  at  breakfast.  Impos- 
sible to  them,  perhaps,  poor  shallow-hearted  creatures,  but  not 
impossible  to  two  people  who  have  found  what  love  is. 

GEBVASB.    It  doesn't  sound  very  romantic. 

SUSAN  (solemnly).  It  is  the  most  romantic  thing  in  the  whole 
world.  .  .  .  Some  more  cheese  ? 

GERVASB  (taking  it  and  rising).  Thank  you.  .  .  .  (With  hit 
mouth  full.)  Do  you  believe  in  love  at  first  sight,  Master  Susan  ? 

SUSAN.  Why  not  I  If  it's  the  woman  you  love  at  first  sight, 
not  only  the  face. 

GERVASE  (walking  down  B.).  I  see.  (After  a  pause.)  It's  rather 
hard  to  tell,  you  know.  I  suppose  the  proper  thing  to  do  is  to  ask 
her  to  have  breakfast  with  you,  and  see  how  you  get  on. 

(SuSAN  packs  up  the  breakfast.) 

SUSAN.    Well,  you  might  do  worse. 

GERVASE  (laughing).  And  propose  to  her  after  breakfast  ?  (Sit* 
on  the  front  of  the  bank.) 

SUSAN  (puts  package  in  box).  If  you  will.  It  is  better  than 
proposing  to  her  at  a  ball  as  some  young  people  do,  carried  away 
suddenly  by  a  snatched  kiss  in  the  moonlight. 

GERVASB  (shaking  his  head).  Nothing  like  that  happened  last 
night. 

SUSAN  (dosing  box).  What  does  the  Great  Alfred  say  of  the 
kiss? 

GERVASB.    I  never  read  the  Daily  Mail. 

SUSAN.    Tennyson,  Mr.  Mallory,  Tennyson. 

GERVASE.    Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

SUSAN.  "  The  kiss,"  says  the  Great  Alfred,  "  the  woven  arms, 
seem  but  to  be  weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss,  the  comfort,  I 
have  found  in  thee."  The  same  idea,  Mr.  Mallory.  Companionship, 
or  the  art  of  having  breakfast  with  a  person.  (Getting  up.)  Well, 
I  must  be  moving  on.  We  have  been  companions  for  a  short  time ; 
I  thank  you  for  it.  I  wish  you  well. 

GERVASB  (getting  up).  I  say,  I've  been  awfully  glad  to  meet 
you.  And  I  shall  never  forget  the  breakfast  you  gave  me. 

SUSAN  (doing  up  his  box).    It  is  friendly  of  you  to  say  so. 

GRBVASB   (hesitatingly).    You  won't  mind  my  having  anothef 


ACT  II.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  87 

one  when  Ernest  comes  back — I  mean,  if  Ernest  comes  back  ? 
(SusAN  is  putting  his  box  on  his  back.)  You  won't  think  I'm  slighting 
yours  in  any  way  ?  But  after  an  outdoor  bathe,  you  know,  one 
does 

SUSAN.    Please  1  I  am  happy  to  think  you  have  such  an  appetite. 

GERVASB  (holding  out  his  hand).  Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  Susan. 
(SusAN  looks  at  his  hand  doubtfully,  and  GERVASE  says  with  a  laugh.) 
Oh,  come  on  I 

SUSAN  (shaking  it).    Good-bye,  Mr.  Mallory. 

GERVASE  (holding  hands).    And  I  shan't  forget  what  you  said. 

SUSAN  (smiling).    1  expect  you  will,  Mr.  Mallory.    Good-bye. 

(He  goes  off  L.  singing.) 

GERVASE  (following  L.  and  speaking  after  him).  Because  it  wasn't 
the  moonlight,  it  wasn't  really.  It  was  just  Her.  (To  himself.) 
It  was  just  Her.  ...  I  suppose  the  great  Whatsisname  would  say, 
"  It  was  just  She,"  but  then,  that  isn't  what  I  mean. 

(GERVASB  watches  him  going  down  the  hill.  Then  he  turns  to  the 
other  side,  says  "  Hallo  1  "  suddenly  in  great  astonishment,  and 
withdraws  a  few  steps.) 

GERVASB.  It  can't  be  I  (He  goes  cautiously  forward  and  looks 
again.)  It  is  1 

(He  comes  back,  and  walks  gently  off  through  the  trees  L.) 

(MELISANDE  comes  in  R.U.B.  She  has  no  hat ;  her  hair  is  in  two 
plaits  to  her  waist ;  she  is  wearing  a  dress  which  might  belong  to  any 
century.  She  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  glade,  looks  round  it, 
holds  out  her  hands  to  it  for  •  moment,  and  then  clasps  them  with  a 
sigh  of  happiness.  .  .  .) 

(GERVASE,  his  cloak  thrown  away,  comes  in  behind  her.    For  a  moment 
he  is  half-hidden  by  the  trees.) 

GERVASB  (L.O.  up  stage,  very  softly).    Princess  I 
(She  hears  but  thinks  she  is  still  dreaming.    She  smiles  a  little.) 
GERVASE  (a  little  more  loudly  and  coming  down).    Princess  1 
(She  listens  and  nods  to  herself.    GERVASE  comes  to  her  u) 
GERVASE.     Princess ! 

(She  turns  round.) 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  wonderingly).    You  t 
GERVASE  (bowing).    At  your  service,  Princess. 
MELISANDB.    It  was  you  who  came  last  night. 
GERVASE.    I  was  at  your  father's  court  last  night.    I  saw  you. 
Ton  looked  at  me. 
MS-ULSANDB.    I  thought  it  was  only  a  dream  when  I  looked  al 


38  THE   ROMANTIC   AGE.  [Ac-p  II 

you.  I  thought  it  was  a  dream  when  you  called  me  just  now. 
Is  it  still  a  dream  ? 

GEBVASE.    If  it  is  a  dream,  let  us  go  on  dreaming. 

MELISANDB.    Where  do  you  come  from  ?    Fairyland  ? 

GEBVASB.     This  is  Fairyland.     We  are  in  the  enchanted  forest. 

MELISANDB  (with  a  sigh  of  happiness).    Ah  ! 

GEEVASE.    You  have  been  looking  for  it  ? 

MELISANDE.  For  so  long.  (She  is  silent  for  a  little,  and  then  say» 
with  a  smile.)  May  one  sit  down  in  an  enchanted  forest  ? 

GEBVASE.    Your  throne  awaits  you.    (He  points  to  the  bank  L.C.) 

MELISANDB  (going  to  and  sitting  on  bank  L.C.).  Thank  you.  .  .  . 
Won't  you  sit,  too  ? 

GEBVASI  (moving  B.  and  shaking  his  head).  I  haven't  finished 
looking  at  you  yet.  .  .  .  You  are  very  lovely,  Princess* 

MELISANDB.    Am  I  ? 

GIBVASE.    Haven't  they  told  you  ? 

MELISANDB.    Perhaps  I  wondered  sometimes. 

GEBVASE  (going  up  o.)  Very  lovely.  .  .  .  Have  you  a  name 
which  goes  with  it  ? 

MELISANDE.    My  name  is  Melisande. 

GEBVASB  (his  whole  heart  in  it).    Melisande 

MELISANDE  (content  at  last).    Ah ! 

GEBVASB.  Meliaande  !  (He  sits  on  the  grass  near  her.  Solemnly). 
Now  the  Princess  Melisande  was  very  beautiful.  (He  looks  up  at 
her  and  is  silent  for  a  little.) 

MELISANDE  (smiling  shyly).    May  we  talk  about  you,  now  ? 

GEBVASE.  It  is  for  the  Princess  to  say  what  we  shall  talk  about. 
If  your  Koyal  Highness  commands,  then  I  will  even  talk  about 
myself. 

MELISANDE.    You  see,  I  don't  know  your  name  yet. 

GEBVASB.    I  am  called  Gervase. 

MELISANDB.    Gervase.    It  is  a  pretty  name. 

GEBVASE.    I  have  been  keeping  it  for  this  morning. 

MELTSANDB.  It  will  be  Prince  Gervase,  will  it  not,  if  this  ia 
Fairyland  ? 

GEBVASE.  Alas,  no.  For  I  am  only  a  humble  woodcutter's 
son.  One  of  seven. 

MELISANDE,  Of  seven  t  I  thought  that  humble  woodcutters 
always  had  three  eons,  and  that  it  waa  the  youngest  who  went 
into  the  world  to  seek  his  fortune. 

GEBVASE.  Three — that's  right.  I  said  "  one  of  several."  Now 
that  I  count  them  up,  three.  (Counting  on  hit  fingers.)  Er — Bow- 
shanks,  er — Mulberry-face  and  myself.  Three.  I  am  the  youngest. 

MELISANDE.    And  the  fairies  came  to  your  christening  ? 

GEBVASB.    Now  for  the  first  time  I  think  that  they  did. 

MBLISANDB  (nodding).  They  always  come  to  the  christening  el 
the  third  and  youngest  son,  and  they  make  him  the  tallest  and  the 
bravest  and  the  most  handsome. 


II.]  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  89 

GERVASE  (modestly).    Oh,  well. 

MELISANDB.  You  are  the  tallest  and  the  bravest  and  the  most 
handsome,  aren't  you  ? 

GERVASE  (with  a  modest  smile).  Well,  of  course,  Mulberry-face 
is  hardly  a  starter,  and  then  Bowshanks — (he  indicates  the  curve  oj 
his  legs) — I  mean,  there's  not  much  competition. 

MELISANDE.    I  have  no  sisters. 

GERVASB.    The  Princess  never  has  sisters.    She  has  suitors. 

MELISANDE  (with  a  sigh).    Yes,  she  has  suitors. 

GERVASE  (taking  out  his  dagger).  Tell  me  their  names  that  I 
may  remove  them  for  you.  (Sharpens  dagger  on  his  boot.) 

MELISANDE.  There  is  one  dressed  in  black  and  white  who  seeks 
to  win  my  hand. 

GERVASE  (feeling  the  point).    He  bites  the  dust  to-morrow. 

MELISANDE.    To-morrow  ? 

GERVASE.  Unless  it  rains  in  the  night.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
safer  if  we  arranged  for  him  to  bite  it  this  afternoon. 

MELISANDE.    How  brave  you  are  ! 

GERVASE.    Say  no  more.     It  will  be  a  pleasure.     (Bowing.) 

MELISANDE.  Ah,  but  I  cannot  ask  you  to  make  this  sacrifice  for 
me. 

GERVABB.    The  sacrifice  will  be  his. 

MELISANDE.  But  are  you  so  certain  that  you  will  kill  him  ? 
Suppose  he  were  to  kill  you  ? 

GERVASE  (getting  up).  Madam,  when  the  third  son  of  a  humble 
woodcutter  engages  in  mortal  combat  with  one  upon  whom  the 
beautiful  Princess  has  frowned,  there  can  be  but  one  end  to  the 
struggle.  To  doubt  this  would  be  to  let  Romance  go. 

MELISANDE.     You  are  right.     I  should  never  have  doubted. 

GERVASE  (by  tree  R.C.).  At  the  same  time,  it  would  perhaps  be  as 
well  to  ask  the  help  of  my  Uncle  Otto. 

MELISANDB.  But  is  it  fair  to  seek  the  assistance  of  an  uncle  in 
order  to  kill  one  small  black  and  white  suitor? 

(GERVASE  replaces  the  dagger.) 

GERVASE.  Ah,  but  he  is  a  wizard.  (MELISANDB  nods.)  One  is 
always  allowed  to  ask  the  help  of  a  wizard.  My  idea  was  that  he 
should  cast  a  spell  upon  the  presumptuous  youth  who  seeks  to  woo 
you,  so  that  to  those  who  gazed  upon  him  he  should  have  the  out- 
ward semblance  of  a  rabbit.  He  would  then  realize  the  hopelessness 
of  his  suit  and  ...  go  away. 

MELISANDE  (with  dignity).  I  should  certainly  never  marry  a 
email  black  and  white  rabbit. 

GERVASE.    No,  you  couldn't,  could  you  ? 

MELISANDE  (gravely).  No.  (Then  their  eyes  meet.  There  is  a 
winkle  in  his  ;  hers  respond  ;  and  suddenly  they  are  laughing  together.) 
What  nonsense  you  talk  1 

GKBVASE  (going  down  R.).    Well,  it's  suck  an  absurdly  fine  morn- 


10  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  IL 

ing,  isn't  it  ?     There's  a  sort  of  sparkle  in  the  air.    (Turns  facing 
Tier.)    I'm  really  trying  to  be  quite  sensible. 

MELISANDE  (making  room  for  him  at  her  feet).  (Jo  on  talking 
nonsense.  (He  sits  down  on  the  ground  and  leans  against  the  bank 
at  her  side.)  Tell  ine  about  yourself.  You  have  told  me  nothing 
yet,  but  that  (she  smiles  at  him)  your  father  is  a  woodcutter. 

GERVASE.     Yes.     He — er — cute  wood. 

MELTSANDE.  And  you  resolved  to  go  out  into  the  world  and 
•eek  your  fortune  ? 

GERVASE.  Yes.  You  see,  if  you  are  a  third  son  of  a  humble 
woodcutter,  nobody  thinks  very  much  of  you  at  home,  and  they 
never  take  you  out  with  them  ;  and  when  you  are  cutting  wood,  they 
always  put  you  where  the  sawdust  gets  into  your  mouth.  Because, 
you  see,  they  have  never  read  history,  and  so  they  don't  know 
that  the  third  and  youngest  son  is  always  the  nicest  of  the  family. 

MELTSANDE.  And  the  tallest  and  the  bravest  and  the  most 
handsome. 

GERVASE.    And  all  the  other  things  you  mention. 

MELISANDE.    So  you  ran  away  ? 

GERVASE.    So  I  ran  away — to  seek  my  fortune. 

MELTSANDE.  But  your  uncle  the  wizard,  or  your  godmother  or 
somebody,  gave  you  a  magic  ring  to  take  with  you  on  your  travels  I 
(Nodding.)  They  always  do,  you  know. 

GERVASE  (showing  the  ring  on  his  finger).  Yes,  my  fairy  godmother 
gave  me  a  magic  ring.  Here  it  is. 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  it).    What  does  it  do  ? 

GERVASE  (pointing  to  ring).  You  turn  it  round  once  and  think 
very  hard  of  anybody  you  want,  and  suddenly  the  person  you  are 
thinking  of  appears  before  you. 

MELISANDE.    How  wonderful  1    Have  you  tried  it  yet  I 

GERVASE.    Once.  .  .  .  That's  why  you  are  here. 

MELISANDE.    Oh  !    (Softly.)    Have  you  been  thinking  of  me  f 

GERVASE.    All  night. 

MELISANDE.    I  dreamed  of  you  all  night. 

GERVASE  (happily).  Did  you,  Melisande  !  How  dear  of  you  to 
dream  of  me  1  (Anxiously.)  Was  I — was  I  all  right  ? 

MELISANDE.    Oh,  yes  I 

GERVASE  (pleased).  Ah  !  (He  spreads  himself  a  little  and  remove* 
m  speck  of  dust  from  hit  sleeve.) 

MELISANDB  (thinking  of  it  stifl).    You  were  so  brave. 

GERVASE.  I'm  generally  a  coward  in  my  own  dreams.  I  expect 
I'm  pretty  brave  in  other  people's.  Did  I  kill  anybody  ! 

MELISANDB.  You  were  engaged  in  a  terrible  fight  with  a  dragon 
when  I  woke  up. 

GERVASE.  Leaving  me  and  the  dragon  still  asleep — I  mean,  stili 
fighting  f  Oh,  Melisande,  how  could  you  leave  us  until  you  knew 
who  had  won  ? 

MBLISANDE.    I  tried  so  hard  to  get  back  to  you. 


ACT  II.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  *1 

GERVASE.  I  expect  I  was  winning,  you  knovr.  I  wish  you 
could  have  got  back  for  the  finish.  .  .  .  (Leaning  towards  her.) 
Melisande,  let  me  come  into  your  dreams  again  to-night. 

MELISANDE.    You  never  asked  me  last  night.    You  just  came. 

GERVASE.    Thank  you  for  letting  me  come. 

MELISANDE.  And  then  when  I  woke  up  early  this  morning,  the 
world  was  so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  fresh  that  I  had  to  be  with  it. 
It  called  to  me  so  clearly — to  come  out  and  find  its  secret.  So  I 
came  up  here,  to  this  enchanted  place,  and  all  the  way  it  whispered 
to  me — wonderful  things. 

GERVASE.    What  did  it  whisper,  Melisande  f 

MELISANDE.    The  secret  of  happiness. 

GERVASE.  Ah,  what  is  it,  Melisande  ?  (He  sits  up.  She  smiles 
and  shakes  her  head).  ...  I  met  a  magician  in  the  woods  tkia 
morning. 

MELISANDE.    Did  he  speak  to  you  ? 

GERVASE.    He  told  me  the  secret  of  happiness. 

MELISANDE.    What  did  he  tell  you  ? 

GERVASE.    He  said  it  was  marriage. 

MELISANDE.  Ah,  but  he  didn't  mean  by  marriage  what  so  many 
people  mean. 

GERVASE.    He  seemed  a  very  potent  magician. 

MELISANDE.  Marriage  to  many  people  means  just  food.  House- 
keeping. He  didn't  mean  that. 

GERVASE.    A  very  wise  and  reverend  magician. 

MELISANDE.  Love  is  romance.  Is  there  anything  romantic  in 
breakfast — or  lunch  ? 

GERVASE  (feelingly).    Well,  not  so  much  in  lunch,  of  course,  but 

MELISANDE.  How  well  you  understand !  Why  do  the  others 
not  understand  ? 

GERVASE  (smiling  at  her).  Perhaps  because  they  have  not  seen 
Melisande. 

MELISANDE.    Oh  no,  no,  that  isn't  it.    All  the  others 

GERVASE.    Do  you  mean  your  suitors  ? 

MELISANDE.  Yes.  They  are  so  unromantic,  so  material.  The 
elothes  they  wear;  the  things  they  talk  about.  But  you  are  so 
different.  Why  is  it  ? 

GERVASE.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  because  I  am  the  third  son 
•f  a  woodcutter.  Perhaps  because  they  don't  know  that  you  are 
the  Princess.  Perhaps  because  they  have  never  been  in  the  enchanted 
forest. 

MELISANDE.    What  would  the  forest  tell  them  ? 

GERVASE  (leaning  towards  her).  All  the  birds  in  the  forest  are 
iinging  "  Melisande " ;  the  little  brook  runs  through  the  forest 
murmuring  "  Melisande  " ;  the  tall  trees  bend  their  heads  and 
whisper  to  each  other  "  Melisande."  All  the  flowers  have  put  on 
their  gay  dresses  for  her.  On,  Melisande  1 


43  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Aca  IL 

MELISANDB  (awed).    Is  it  true  ? 

GERVASB.  Is  she  not  the  Princess  ?  (They  we  silent  for  m 
little,  happy  to  be  together.  .  .  .  He  looks  back  at  her  and  gives  a 
tudden  little  laugh. 

MELISANDE.    (Gently).    What  is  it  f 

GERVASE.  Just  you  and  I — together— on  the  top  of  the  world 
like  this. 

MELISANDE.  Tes,  that's  what  I  feel,  too.  (After  a  pause.)  Gto 
•n  pretending. 

GERVASB.    Pretending  ? 

MELISANDE.    That  the  world  is  very  young. 

GERVASB.     We  are  very  young,  Melisande. 

MELISANDE  (timidly).    It  is  only  a  dream,  isn't  it  I 

GERVASE.  Who  knows  what  a  dream  is  ?  Perhaps  we  fell  asleep 
In  Fairyland  a  thousand  years  ago,  and  all  that  we  thought  real  was 
*  dream,  until  now  at  last  we  are  awake  again. 

MELISANDE.     How  wonderful  that  would  be. 

GERVASE.  Perhaps  we  are  dreaming  now.  But  is  it  your  dream 
or  my  dream,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE  (after  thinking  it  out).  I  think  I  would  rather  it 
were  your  dream,  Gervase.  For  then  I  should  be  in  it,  and  that 
would  mean  that  you  had  been  thinking  of  me. 

GERVASE.    Then  it  shall  be  my  dream,  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.    Let  it  be  a  long  one,  my  dear. 

GERVASE.    For  ever  and  for  ever. 

MELISANDE  (dreamily).  Oh,  I  know  that  it  is  only  a  dream,  and 
that  presently  we  shall  wake  up ;  or  else  that  you  will  go  away 
and  I  will  go  away,  too,  and  we  shall  never  meet  again ;  for  in  the 
real  world,  what  could  I  be  to  you,  or  you  to  me  1  So  go  on  pre- 
tending. 

(He  stands  up  and  faces  her.) 

GERVASB.  Melisande,  if  this  were  Fairyland,  or  if  we  were  knights 
and  ladies  in  some  old  romance,  would  you  trust  yourself  to  me  ! 

MELISANDE  (rising).    So  very  proudly. 

GERVASE.  You  would  let  me  come  to  your  father's  court  and 
claim  you  over  all  your  other  suitors,  and  fight  for  you,  and  take 
you  away  with  me  ? 

MELISANDK.  If  this  were  Fairyland,  yes.  (On  the  steps  of  the 
bank.) 

GERVASB.    Yon  would  trust  me  t 

MELISANDE.    I  would  trust  my  lord. 

GERVASE  (smiling  at  her).  Then  I  will  come  for  the  Princess  this 
afternoon.  (With  sudden  feeling.)  Ah,  how  can  I  keep  away  now 
that  I  have  seen  the  Princess  ? 

MELISANDE  (L.O.,  shyly — happily).    When  you  saw  me  last 
did  you  know  that  you  would  see  me  again  ? 

GERVASE  (o.).    I  have  been  waiting  for  you  here. 

MKLISANDE.    How  did  you  know  that  I  would  come  t 


IT.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  43 

GKBVASE.  On  such  a  morning — in  such  a  place — how  could  the 
l»ved  one  not  be  here  ! 

MELISANDE  (looking  away).    The  loved  one  I 

GEBVASB.    I  saw  you  last  night. 

MELISANDE  (softly).    Was  that  enough  ? 

GEBVASE  (moving  towards  her).  Enough,  yes.  Enough  ?  Oh  no, 
Be,  no  1 

MELISANDE  (nodding).    I  will  wait  for  you  this  afternoon. 

GERVASE.  And  you  will  come  away  with  rne  ?  Out  into  the 
world  with  me  ?  Over  the  hills  and  far  away  with  me  I 

MELISANDE  (softly).    Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

GERVASE.    Princess ! 

MELISANDE.    Not  Princess.    (She  puts  out  Tier  hands.) 

GERVASE.    Melisande  1 

MELISANDE.    Ah ! 

GERVASE  (taking  her  hands).    May  I  kiss  your  hands,  Melisande  t 

MELISANDE.    They  are  my  lord's  to  kiss. 

GERVASE  (kissing  them).    Dear  hands. 

MELISANDE.    Now  I  shall  love  them,  too. 

GERVASE.    May  I  kiss  your  lips,  Melisande  t 

MELISANDE  (proudly).    Who  shall,  if  not  my  lord  ? 

GERVASE  (taking  far  in  his  arms).  Melisande  1  (He  touches  her 
Kps  with  his.) 

MELISANDE  (breaking  away  from  him).    Oh  ! 

GERVASE  (triumphantly).    I  love  you,  Melisande !    I  love  you ! 

MELISANDE  (facing  the  front  wonderingly).  Why  didn't  I  wake 
»p  when  you  kissed  me  ?  We  are  still  here.  The  dream  goes  on. 

GERVASE.  It  is  no  dream,  Melisande.  Or  if  it  is  a  dream,  then 
in  my  dream  I  love  you,  and  if  we  are  awake,  then  awake  I  love  you. 
I  love  you  if  this  is  Fairyland,  and  if  there  is  no  Fairyland,  then 
my  love  will  make  a  faery  land  of  the  world  for  you.  For  I  love 
you,  Melisande. 

MELISANDE  (timidly,  turning  to  him).    Are  we  pretending  still ! 

GERVASE.    No,  no,  no  1 

jShe  looks  at  him  gravely  for  a  moment  and  then  nods  her  head.) 

MELISANDB  (pointing).  I  live  down  there.  You  will  come  for 
me  1 

GEBVASB.    I  will  come. 

MELISANDE.  I  am  my  lord's  servant.  I  will  wait  for  him.  (She 
goes  up  o.  Then  she  turns  to  him  and  curtsies,  saying)  This  after- 
noon, my  lord. 

(She  goes  down  the  hill.) 

(ZZe  stands  looking  after  her.     While  he  is  standing  there,  ERN  comes 
through  the  trees  with  breakfast.) 

(The  CURTAIN  comes  down.) 


ACT  HI 

If  if  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  game  day.  JANE  is 
tilting  on  the  sofa  L.  in  the  hall,  glancing  at  a  paper,  but  evidently 
rather  bored  with  it,  and  hoping  that  somebody — BOBBY  or  somebody 
— will  appear  presently.  However,  it  is  MB.  KNOWLB  who  passes 
the  window  and  then  comes  in  B.C.) 

MB.  KNOWLB  (coming  o.).    Ah,  Jane ! 

JANE  (looking  up).  Hallo,  Uncle  Henry.  Did  you  have  a  good 
day? 

MB.  KNOWLE.    Well,  Peters  and  I  had  a  very  enjoyable  drive. 

JANE.    But  you  found  nothing  at  the  sale  ?     What  a  pity  I 

MB.  KNOWLE  (taking  a  catalogue  from  his  pocket).  Nothing  which 
I  wanted  myself,  but  there  were  several  very  interesting  lots.  Peters 
was  strongly  tempted  by  Lot  29 — "  Two  hip-baths  and  a  stuffed 
crocodile."  Very  useful  things  to  have  by  you  if  you  think  of 
getting  married,  Jane,  and  setting  up  house  for  yourself.  I  don't 
know  if  you  have  any  thoughts  in  that  direction  ? 

JANE  (a  little  embarrassed).    Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  some  day. 

MB.  KNOWLE.    Ah  !  ...  Where's  Bobby  ?     (Moves  B.) 

JANE  (carelessly).    Bobby  ?     Oh,  he's  about  somewhere. 

MB.  KNOWLE  (turning).  I  think  Bobby  would  like  to  hear  about 
Lot  29.  (Returning  to  his  catalogue.)  Or  perhaps  Lot  42.  "  Lot 
42 — Twelve  aspidistras,  towel-horse,  and  '  The  Maiden's  Prayer.'  " 
All  for  seven  and  sixpence.  I  ought  to  have  had  Bobby  with  me 
He  could  have  made  a  firm  offer  of  eight  shillings.  .  .  (Sitting  on 
settee  B.).  By  the  way,  I  have  a  daughter,  haven't  I  ?  How  was 
Sandy  this  morning  ? 

JANE.    I  didn't  see  her.    Aunt  Mary  is  rather  anxious  about  her. 

MB.  KNOWLB  (preparing  to  read  the  paper).  Has  she  left  us  for 
•ver? 

JANE.    There's  nothing  to  be  frightened  about  really. 

MB.  KNOWLE.    I'm  not  frightened. 

JANE.  She  had  breakfast  before  any  of  us  were  up,  and  went 
vat  with  some  sandwiches  afterwards,  and  she  hasn't  come  back 
yet. 

MB.  KNOWLB.  A  very  healthy  way  of  spending  the  day.  (MBS. 
KNOWLE  comes  in  L.  and  MB.  KNOWLB  rises.)  Well,  Mary,  I  hear 
that  we  have  no  daughter  now. 

44 


ACT  III.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  46 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  At,  there  you  are,  Henry.  Thank  Heaven  that 
you  are  back  safely.  (Comes  to  chair  o.) 

MB.  KNOWLB.  My  dear,  I  always  meant  to  come  back  safely, 
Didn't  you  expect  me  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  I  had  given  up  hope.  (MR.  KNOWLE  sits  on 
settee  again.)  Jane  here  will  tell  you  what  a  terrible  morning  I 
have  had ;  prostrate  on  the  sofa,  mourning  for  my  loved  ones. 
(Sitting  on  chair  o.)  My  only  child  torn  from  me,  my  husband — 
dead. 

MB.  KNOWLB  (surprised).    Oh,  I  was  dead  f 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  I  pictured  the  car  smashed  to  atoms,  and  yon 
lying  in  the  road,  dead,  with  Peters  by  your  side. 

MR.  KNOWLB.    Ah  I    How  was  Peters  ? 

MRS.  KNOWLB  (with  a  shrug).  I  didn't  look.  What  is  a  chauffeur 
to  one  who  has  lost  her  husband  and  her  only  child  in  the  same 
morning  ? 

MB.  KNOWLB.    Still,  I  think  you  might  have  looked. 

JANE.  Sandy's  all  right,  Aunt  Mary.  You  know  she  often  goes 
out  alone  all  day  like  this. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  is  she  alone  f  Jane,  did  you  count  the 
gardeners  as  I  asked  you  I 

MR.  KNOWLE.    Count  the  gardeners  t 

MRS.  KNOWLE.    To  make  sure  that  none  of  them  is  missing  too. 

JANE.  It's  quite  all  right,  Aunt  Mary.  Sandy  will  be  back  by 
tea-time. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (resigned).  It  all  comes  of  christening  her  Melisande. 
You  know,  Henry,  I  quite  thought  you  said  Millicent. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (putting  aside  paper).  Well,  talking  about  tea,  my 
dear — at  which  happy  meal  our  long-lost  daughter  will  be  restored 
te>  us — we  have  a  visitor  coming,  a  nice  young  fellow  who  takes  an 
interest  in  prints. 

URS.  KNOWLB.    I've  heard  nothing  of  this,  Henry. 

MR.  KNOWLB.    No,  my  dear,  that's  why  I'm  telling  you  now. 

MBS.  KNOWLB.    A  young  man  t 

MR.  KNOWLB.    Yes. 

MRS.  KNOWLB.    Nice  looking  t 

MB.  KNOWLB.    Yes. 

MRS.  KNOWLB.    Rich  f  

MB.  KNOWLB.  I  forgot  to  ask  him,  Mary.  However,  we  can 
remedy  that  omission  as  soon  as  he  arrives. 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  It's  a  very  unfortunate  day  for  him  to  have 
chosen.  Here's  Sandy  lost,  and  I'm  not  fit  to  be  seen,  and — Jane, 
your  hair  wants  tidying 

MR.  KNOWLB.  He  is  not  coming  to  see  you  or  Sandy  or  Jane, 
my  dear  ;  he  is  coming  to  see  me.  Fortunately,  I  am  looking  very 
beautiful  this  afternoon. 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  Jane,  yon  had  better  be  in  the  garden,  dear, 
and  see  if  you  can  stop  Sandy  before  she  cornea  in,  and  just  giv« 


46  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  HL 

her  a  earning.  (JANE  crosses  in  front  of  MRS.  KNOWLE  and  goes  to 
mirror.  She  tidies  her  hair.)  I  don't  know  what  she'll  look  like 
after  roaming  the  fields  all  day,  and  falling  into  pools 

MR.  KNOWLE.  A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress  kindles  in  clothes 
ft  wantonness. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  I  will  go  and  tidy  myself.  (She  rises  and  moves 
down  a  pace  or  two.)  Jane,  I  think  your  mother  would  like  you  to 
— but,  after  all,  one  must  think  of  one's  own  child  first.  (She 
puts  cushions  straight  on  settee  L.)  You  will  tell  Sandy,  won't  you  ? 
We  had  better  have  tea  in  here.  .  .  .  Henry,  your  trousers — (she 
looks  to  see  that  JANE  is  not  listening,  and  then  moves  slowly  to  him 
and  says  in  a  loud  whisper)  your  trousers 

MB.  KNOWLE.  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  make  myself  clear,  Mary. 
It's  a  young  fellow  who  is  coming  to  see  my  prints ;  not  the  Prince 
of  Wales  who  is  coming  to  see  my  trousers. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (turning  to  JANE).  You'll  remember,  Jane  f 
(Going  to  door  L.) 

JANE  (smiling).    Yes,  Aunt  Mary. 

MBS.  KNOWLB,    That's  a  good  girl. 

(She  goes  out  L.) 

MB.  KNOWLE.  Ah !  ...  Your  aunt  wasn't  very  lucid,  Jane. 
(JANE  comes  to  L.O.)  Which  one  of  you  is  it  who  is  going  to  marry 
the  gentleman  ? 

JANE.    Don't  be  so  absurd,  Uncle  Henry.    (Sits  settee  L.) 

MR.  KVOWLE  (still  sitting  on  settee  R.  and  taking  out  his  catalogue 
again).  Perhaps  he  would  be  interested  in  Lot  29.  (BOBBY  comes 
in  through  the  windows  and  moves  down  o.)  Ah,  here's  Bobby. 
Bobby,  they  tell  me  that  you  think  of  setting  up  house. 

BOBBY  (looking  quickly  at  JANE).    Who  told  you  that  ? 

MB.  KNOWLE  (reading  from  the  catalogue).  Now,  starting  with  two 
hip-baths  and  a  stuffed  crocodile  for  nine  shillings  and  sixpence, 
and  working  up  to  twelve  aspidistras,  a  towel-horse  and  "  The 
Maiden's  Prayer"  for  eight  shillings,  you  practically  have  the 
•pare  room  furnished  for  seventeen  and  six.  But  perhaps  I  had 
better  leave  the  catalogue  with  you.  (He  rises  and  presses  it  into 
the  bewildered  BOBBY'S  hands.)  I  must  go  and  tidy  myself  up. 
Somebody  i*  coining  to  propose  to  me  this  afternoon. 

(He  hurries  out  L.) 
(BOBBY  looks  after  him  blankly,  and  then  turns  to  JANE.) 

BOBBY.    I  say,  what's  happened  t 

JANE.    Happened  ? 

BOBBY  (moving  towards  JANE  L.).    Yes,  why  did  he  say  that  abo 
my  setting  up  house  ? 

JANB,  I  think  he  was  just  being  funny.  He  is  sometimes,  JOB 
know. 


ACE  in.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  47 

BOBBY.    Yon  don't  think  he  guessed 

JANE.    Guessed  what  ?    About  you  and  Melisande  I 

BOBBY  (sitting  on  JANE'S  right  side  on  the  settee  L.).  I  say,  shut 
up,  Jane.  I  thought  we  agreed  not  to  say  anything  more  about 
that. 

JANE.    But  what  else  could  he  have  guessed  f 

BOBBY  (leaning  towards  her).     You  know  well  enough, 

JANE  (shaking  her  head).    No,  I  don't. 

BOBBY.    I  told  you  this  morning.   *~~ 

JANE.    What  did  you  tell  me  i 

BOBBY.     You  know. 

JANE.    No,  I  don't. 

BOBBY.    Yes,  you  dow 

JANE.    No,  I  don't. 

BOBBY  (coming  closer).    All  right,  shall  I  tell  you  again  f 

JANE  (edging  away).    I  don't  want  to  hear  it. 

BOBBY  (moving  still  nearer  to  her).  How  do  you  know  you  don't 
want  to  hear  it,  if  you  don't  know  what  it  is  ? 

JANE.    I  can  guess  what  it  is. 

BOBBY.    There  you  are  I 

JANE.    It's  what  you  say  to  everybody,  isn't  it  ? 

BOBBY  (loftily).  If  you  want  to  know,  Miss  Bagot,  I  have  only 
said  it  to  one  other  person  in  my  life,  and  that  was  in  mistake 
for  you. 

JANE  (coldly).  Melisande  and  I  are  not  very  much  alike,  Mr. 
Coote. 

BOBBY.    No.    You're  much  prettier. 

JANE  (turning  her  head  away).  You  don't  really  think  so.  Any- 
how, it  isn't  true. 

BOBBY.    It  is  true,  Jane.    I  swear  it. 

JANE.    Well,  you  didn't  think  so  yesterday. 

BOBBY.  Why  do  you  keep  talking  about  yesterday  I  I'm  talking 
about  to-day. 

JANE.    A  girl  has  her  pride,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  So  has  a  man.  I'm  awfully  proud  of  being  in  love  with 
you. 

JANE.    That  isn't  what  I  mean. 

BOBBY.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Well — well — well,  what  rk  comes  to  is  that 
you  get  refused  by  Sandy,  and  then  you  immediately  come  to  me 
and  expect  me  to  jump  at  you. 

BOBBY.  Suppose  I  had  waited  a  year  and  then  come  to  700, 
would  that  have  been  better  I 

JANE.    Of  course  it  would. 

BOBBY.    Well,  really  I  can't  follow  yon,  darling. 

JANE  (indignantly).    Yon  mustn't  call  me 

BOBBY.    Mustn't  call  yon  what  I 

JANS  (awkwardly).    Darling. 


48  THE  ROMANTIC  AGB.  {Aa*  ITL 

BOBBY.    Did  I  call  you  darling  I 

JANE  (shortly).     Yes. 

BOBBY  (to  himself).  "  Darling."  No,  I  suppose  I  mustn't.  But 
it  suits  you  so  awfully  well — darling.  (She  stamps  her  foot.)  I'm 

sorry,  darl 1  mean  Jane,  but  really  I  can't  follow  you.  Because 

you're  so  frightfully  fascinating,  that  after  twenty-four  houre  of 
It,  I  simply  have  to  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you,  then  your  pride 
is  hurt.  But  if  you  had  been  so  frightfully  unattractive  that  it 
took  me  a  whole  year  to  see  anything  in  you  at  all,  then  apparently 
you'd  have  been  awfully  proud. 

JANE.    You  have  known  me  a  whole  year,  Bobby. 

BOBBY.  Not  really,  you  know.  Directly  I  saw  you  and  Sandy 
together  I  knew  I  was  in  love  with  one  of  you,  but— well,  love  is  a 
dashed  rummy  thing,  and  I  thought  it  was  Sandy.  And  so  I  didn't 
really  see  you  till  last  night,  when  you  were  so  awfully  decent  to  me. 

JANE  (wistfully).  It  sounds  very  well,  but  the  trouble  is  that  it 
will  sound  just  as  well  to  the  next  girl. 

BOBBY.    What  next  girl  ? 

JANE.    The  one  you  propose  to  to-morrow. 

BOBBY.  You  know,  Jane,  when  you  talk  like  that  I  feel  that 
you  don't  deserve  to  be  proposed  to  at  all. 

JANE  (loftily).    I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  be. 

BOBBY  (coming  closer).    Are  you  ? 

JANE.    Am  I  what  ? 

BOBBY.    Quite  sure. 

JANE.  I  should  have  thought  it  was  pretty  obvious  seeing  that 
I've  just  refused  you. 

BOBBY.    Have  you  I 

JANE.    Have  I  what? 

BOBBY.    Eefused  me. 

JANE.    I  thought  I  had. 

BOBBY.  And  would  you  be  glad  if  I  went  away  and  never  saw 
you  again  ?  (She  hesitates.)  Honest,  Jane.  Would  you  ? 

JANE  (awkwardly).  Well,  of  course,  I  like  you,  Bobby.  I  always 
have. 

BOBBY.  But  you  feel  that  you  would  like  me  better  if  I  were 
somebody  else's  husband  1 

JANE  (indignantly).    Oh,  I  never  said  that. 

BOBBY.    Dash  it,  you've  been  saying  it  all  this  afternoon. 

JANE  (weakly).  Bobby,  don't;  I  can't  argue  with  you.  But 
really,  dear,  I  can't  say  now  that  I  will  marry  you.  Oh,  you  mint 
understand.  Oh,  think  what  Sandy 

BOBBY.    We  won't  tell  Sandy. 

JANE  (surprised).    But  she's  bound  to  know. 

BOBBY.    We  won't  tell  anybody. 

JANE  (eagerly).    Bobby  I 

BOBBY  (nodding).  Just  you  and  me.  Nobody  else  for  a  long 
time.  A  little  private  secret. 


Acv  III.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  49 

JANE.    Bobby ! 

BOBBT  (coming  to  her).  Is  it  a  bargain,  Jane  f  Because  if  it's  • 
bargain (Trying  to  embrace  her.) 

JANE  (rising  quickly  and  moving  away  to  O.  BOBBY  rises  too, 
\olding  her  hand).  No,  no,  Bobby.  Not  now.  I  must  go  upstairs 
and  tidy  myself — no,  I  mustn't,  I  must  wait  for  Melisande — no, 
Bobby,  don't.  Not  yet.  I  mean  it,  really.  Do  go,  dear,  anybody 
ought  come  in. 

BOBBY.    All  right,  darling,  I'll  go. 

JANE.  You  mustn't  say  "  darling."  You  might  say  it  accident- 
tlly  in  front  of  them  all. 

BOBBY  (grinning).  All  right,  Miss  Bagot  ...  I  am  going  now, 
Miss  Bagot.  (At  the  windows  up  B.)  Good-bye,  Miss  Bagot.  (JANE 
blows  him  a  kiss.  He  bows.)  Your  favour  to  hand,  Miss  Bagot. 
(He goes  out  through  the  window  as  if  to  exit  B,  sees  MELISANDE  coming 
through  the  garden,  and  turns.)  Hallo,  here's  Sandy  I  (lie  hurries 
yff  in  the  opposite  direction.) 

(MELISANDE  cornea  through  the  windows  quickly,  goes  to  JANB  and 
embraces  her.) 

MELISANDB.    Oh,  Jane,  Jane! 

JANB.    What,  dear? 

MELISANDB.    Everything. 

JANE.    Yes,  but  that's  so  vague,  darling.    Do  you  mean  that 

MELISANDE  (dreamily).  I  have  seen  him  ;  I  have  talked  to  him ; 
he  has  kissed  me. 

JANB  (amazed).  Kissed  you  f  Do  you  mean  that  he  has — kissed 
you  ? 

MELISANDB.  I  have  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  he  has  looked  into 
mine. 

JANB.    Yes,  but  who  ? 

MELISANDB.  The  true  knight,  the  prince,  for  whom  I  have  been 
waiting  so  long. 

JANB.    But  who  is  he  f 

MELISANDB  (going  down  B.).    They  call  him  Gervase. 

JANB.    Gervase  who  f 

MELISANDB  (turns  scornfully).  Did  Elaine  say,  "  Lancelot  wh«  * 
when  they  told  her  his  name  was  Lancelot  ?  (Sits  settee  B.) 

JANB.  Yes,  dear,  but  this  is  the  twentieth  century.  He  must 
have  a  name.  (She  sit*  on  the  floor  in  front  of  MELISANDE.) 

MELISANDB  (dreamily).  Through  the  forest  he  came  to  me,  dressed 
In  blue  and  gold. 

JANB  (sharply).  Sandy  1  (Struck  with  an  idea.)  Have  you  been 
out  all  day  without  your  hat,  da rling  f 

MELISANDB  (vaguely).    Have  I ! 

JANB.    I  mean — blue  and  gold.    They  don't  do  it  nowadays, 

MELISANDB  (nodding  to  her).    He  did,  Jane. 

JAVB.    But  how  !— Why  I    Who  can  he  b«  t 


50  THE   ROMANTIC   AGE.  [Ad?  IIL 

MELISANDE.  He  said  he  was  a  humble  woodcutter's  son..  That 
means  he  was  a  prince  in  disguise.  He  called  me  his  princess. 

JANE.    Darling,  how  could  he  be  a  prince  ? 

MELISANDE.  I  have  read  stories  sometimes  of  men  who  went 
to  sleep  and  woke  up  thousands  of  years  afterwards  and  found 
themselves  in  a  different  world.  Perhaps,  Jane,  he  lived  in  those 
old  days,  and 

JANE.    Did  he  talk  like  an  ordinary  person? 

MELISANDE.    Oh  no,  no  ! 

JANE.  Well,  it's  really  extraordinary.  .  .  .  Was  he  a  gentle- 
man ? 

MELISANDE  (smiling  at  her).    I  didn't  ask  him,  Jane. 

JANE  (crossly).    You  know  what  I  mean. 

MELISANDE.    He  is  coming  this  afternoon  to  take  me  away. 

JANE  (amazed).  To  take  you  away  ?  But  what  about  Aunt 
Mary? 

MELISANDB  (vaguely).  Aunt  Mary  f  What  has  she  got  to  do 
with  it  ? 

JANE  (impatiently).  Oh,  but  •  (With  a  shrug  of  resignation.) 
I  don't  understand.  Do  you  mean  he's  coming  here  1  (MELISANDB 
nods  gravely.)  Melisande,  you'll  let  me  see  him  ? 

MELISANDB.  Yes.  I've  thought  it  all  out.  I  wanted  you  here, 
Jane.  He  will  come  in ;  I  will  present  you ;  and  then  you  must 
leave  us  alone.  But  I  should  like  you  to  see  him.  Just  to  see 
how  different,  how  utterly  different  he  is  from  every  other  man. 
.  .  .  But  you  will  promise  to  go  when  you  have  seen  him,  vron't 
you  ? 

JANE  (nodding).  I'll  say,  "  I'm  afraid  I  must  leave  you  now,  and 
— — "  Sandy,  how  can  he  be  a  prince  ? 

MELISANDB.  When  you  see  him,  Jane,  you  will  say,  "  How  can 
he  not  be  a  prince  1  " 

JANE.  But  one  has  to  leave  princes  backward.  (Rises.)  I 
mean — he  won't  expect — you  know 

MELISANDB.  I  don't  think  so.  Besides,  after  all,  you  are  my 
•ousin. 

JANE.    Yes.    I  think  I  shall  get  that  in  ;  just  to  be  on  the  safe 
side.    "  Well,  cousin,  I  must  leave  you  now,  as  I  have  to  attend 
my  aunt."    And  then  a  sort  of — not  exactly  a  curtsy,  but 
(She  practises,  murmuring  the  words  to  herself).    I  suppose  you  didn't 
happen  to  mention  me  to  him  this  morning  f 

MELISANDB  (half  smiling).    Oh  no  ! 

JANE  (sitting  on  the  left  side  of  MELISANDB,  hurt).  I  don't  see  why 
/ou  shouldn't  have.  What  did  you  talk  about  ? 

MELISANDB.  I  don't  know.  (She  grips  JANE'S  arm  suddenly.) 
Jane,  I  didn't  dream  it  all  this  morning,  did  If  It  did  happen  t 
I  saw  him — he  kissed  me — he  is  coming  for  me — ho— 

(finter  ALICE,  X*) 


ACT  HI.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  01 

ALICE.    Mr.  Gervase  Mallory. 

MELISANDE  (happily).  Ah  1  (She  rises  and  moves  to  above  JANB, 
looking  at  the  door.) 

(GERVASE  comes  in,  an  apparently  ordinary  young  man  in  a  loud 
golfing  suit.    JANE  rises.) 

GERVASE.    How-do-you-do  ? 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  with  growing  amazement  and  horror), 
Oh  I 

(JANE  looks  from  one  to  the  other  in  bewilderment.) 

GERVASE  (L.O.).  I  ought  to  explain.  Mr.  Knowle  was  kind 
enough  to  lend  me  some  petrol  last  night ;  my  car  broke  down ; 
he  was  good  enough  to  say  I  might  come  this  afternoon  and  see 
his  prints.  I  am  hoping  to  be  allowed  to  thank  him  again  for 
his  kindness  last  night.  And — er — I've  brought  back  the  petroL 

MELISANDE  (still  with  her  eyes  on  him).  My  father  will  no  doubt 
be  here  directly.  This  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Bagot. 

GERVASE  (bowing).    How-do-you-do  ? 

JANE  (nervously).  How-do-you-do  ?  (After  a  pause.)  Well, 
I'm  afraid  I  must  leave  you  now,  as 

MELISANDE  (with  her  eyes  still  on  GERVASE,  putting  out  a  hand  and 
clutching  at  JANE).  No  1 

JANE  (startled).    What? 

MELISANDE.    Don't  go,  Jane.    Do  sit  down,  won't  you,  Mr. — w 

GERVASE.    Mallory. 

MELISANDE.    Mr.  Mallory. 

GERVASE.    Thank  you. 

MELISANDE.  Where  will  you  sit,  Mr.  Mallory  ?  (She  is  stftt 
talking  in  an  utterly  expressionless  voice.) 

GERVASE.  Thank  you.  Where  are  you (He  indicates  the 

sofa.) 

MELISANDB  (still  holding  JANE).    Thank  you. 

(MELISANDE  and  JANE  sit  down  together  on  the  sofa  R.    GERTASI 
sits  on  the  settee  L.     There  is  an  awkward  silence.) 

JANE  (half  getting  up).    Well,  I'm  afraid  I  must 

(MELISANDE  pulls  her  down.    She  subsides.    Pause.) 

MELISANDB.  Charming  weather  we  are  having,  are  we  not,  Mr. 
Mallory  ? 

GERVASE  (enthusiastically).     Oh,  rather.    Absolutely  top-hole. 

MELISANDE  (to  JANE).    Absolutely  top-hole  weather,  is  it 
Jane  ? 

JANE.     Oh,  I  love  it. 

MELISANDE.    You  play  golf,  I  expect,  Mi.  Mallory 


12  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  III. 

GERVABE.  Oh,  rather.  I've  been  playing  this  morning.  (With 
«  smile.)  Pretty  rotten,  too,  I'm  afraid. 

MELISANDE.  Jane  plays  golf.  (To  JANE.)  You're  pretty  rotten, 
too,  aren't  you,  Jane  ? 

JANE.    Bobby  and  I  were  both  very  bad  to-day. 

MELISANDE.  I  think  you  will  like  Bobby,  Mr.  Mallory.  He  is 
staying  with  us  just  now.  I  expect  you  will  have  a  good  deal  in 
common.  He  is  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 

GERVASE  (smiling).    So  am  I. 

MELISANDE  (valiantly  repressing  a  shudder).  Jane,  Mr.  Mallory 
is  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  Isn't  that  curious  ?  I  felt  sure  that 
he  must  be  directly  I  saw  him. 

(There  is  another  awkward  silence.) 

JANE  (getting  up).    Well,  I'm  afraid  I  must  - 

MELISANDE  (putting  her  down).  Don't  go,  Jane.  I  suppose 
there  are  a  great  many  of  you  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.    Oh,  quite  a  lot. 

MELISANDE.  Quite  a  lot,  Jane.  .  .  .  You  don't  know  Bobby  — 
Mr.  Coote? 

GERVASE.    N  —  no,  I  don't  think  so. 

MELISANDE.  I  suppose  there  are  so  many  of  you,  and  you  dress 
so  much  alike,  and  look  so  much  alike,  that  it's  difficult  to  be  quite 
sure  whom  you  do  know. 

GERVASE.    Yes,  of  course,  that  makes  it  more  difficult. 

MELISANDE.  Yes.  You  see  that,  don't  you,  Jane  f  .  .  .  You 
play  billiards  and  bridge,  of  course,  Mr.  Mallory  f 

GERVASB.    Oh,  yes. 

MELISANDE.  They  are  absolutely  top-hole  games,  aren't  they  f 
Are  you  —  pretty  rotten  at  them  f 


(Enter  MB.  KNOWLB,  L.) 


GKRVASB.    Well 


MELISANDE  (getting  up).    Ah,  here's  my  father. 
MB.  KNOWLE  (coming  down  0.).    Ah,  Mr.  Mallory,  delighted  to 
see  you.    And  Sandy  and  Jane  to  entertain  you.    That's  right. 

(GEKV^SE  has  risen  on  MR.  RSOWLS'B  entrance.    They  shake  hands.) 
GERVASB.    How-do-you-do  f 

(ALICE  ocmttt  fo  with  tea.) 

MR.  KNOWLE.  I've  been  wasting  my  day  at  a  sale.  I  hope  you 
•pent  yours  more  profitably.  (GERVASE  laughs  pleasantly.)  And 
what  have  you  been  doing,  Sandy  ? 

MELISANDB.    Wasting  mine,  too,  Father. 

MR.  KNOWLB.  Dear,  dear.  Well,  they  say  that  the  wasted  hours 
Ot  the  best. 


ACT  III.]                   THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.                               53 
MELISANDE  (moving  to  the  window,  B.C.).    I  think  I  will  go  and 

(MRS.  KNOWLB  comes   in  L.   with  outstretched  hands.    She  comet 

down  c.) 

MB.  KNOWLB  (stepping  back).    My  dear,  this  is  Mr.  Mallory. 

MBS.  KNOWLE.  My  dear  Mr.  Mallory  1  (Turning  round.)  Sandy, 
dear !  How-do-you-do  ? 

GEKVASE  (shaking  hands).    How-do-you-do  I 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Sandy,  dear !  (MELISANDE  comes  slowly  down.) 
(To  GERVASE.)  My  daughter,  Melisande,  Mr.  Mallory.  My  only 
child. 

GERVASE.    Oh — er — we 

MELISANDE.    Mr.  Mallory  and  I  have  met,  Mother. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (indicating  JANE).  And  our  dear  Jane.  My  dear 
sister's  only  daughter.  But  dear  Jane  has  a  brother.  Dear  Harold  ! 
In  the  Civil  Service.  ( J/otws  it.)  Sandy,  dear,  will  you  pour  out  tea  ? 

MELISANPE  (resigned).  Yes,  Mother.  (She  goes  to  the  tea-table, 
bringing  down  chair  from  up  L.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (going  to  the  sofa  L.).  I  am  such  an  invalid  now, 
Mr.  Mallory 

GERVASE  (helping  her).     Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.    Can  I ? 

MRS.  KNOWLB.  Thank  you.  (She  and  GERVASE  sit  on  tJie  sofa  L.) 
Dr.  Anderson  insists  on  my  resting  as  much  as  possible.  So  my 
dear  Melisande  looks  after  the  house  for  me.  Such  a  comfort. 
You  are  not  married  yourself,  Mr.  Mallory ! 

GERVASE.    No.    Oh,  no. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (smiling  to  herself).    Ah  1 

MELISANDE.  Jane,  Mother's  tea.  (JANE  crosses  from  sofa  ».  to 
L.  of  table.) 

GERVASE  (rising  and  going  behind  sofa  to  table).  Oh,  1  beg  your 
pardon.  Let  me 

JAMB.    It's  all  light.    (She  hands  tea  over  sofa  to  MRS.  KNOWLE.) 

(GEKVASE  takes  up  a  cake-stand.) 

MB.  KNOWLB.  Where's  Bobby  t  Bobby  is  the  real  expert  at 
this. 

MKLISANDE.  I  expect  Mr.  Mallory  is  an  expert,  too,  Father. 
You  enjoy  tea-parties,  I  expect,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE  (bringing  the  cake-stand  to  MRS.  KNOWLE).  I  enjoy 
most  things,  Miss  Knowle.  (To  MRS.  KNOWLE.)  Will  you  have 
one  of  these,  Mrs.  Knowle  f 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you.  I  have  to  be  careful.  Dr.  Anderson 
Insists  on  my  being  careful,  Mr.  Mallory.  (Confidentially.)  Nothing 
organic,  you  understand.  (GERVASE  takes  the  stand  back  and  then 
returns  and  sits  on  sofa  L.,  below  MRS.  KNOWLE.)  Both  my  husband 
•nd  I — Melisande  has  an  absolutely  sound  constitution. 

MKLISANDE  (indicating  cup).  Jane.  .  .  .  (JANE  takes  cup  and 
goes  back  to  tofa  B.)  Sugar  and  milk,  Mr.  Mallory  i 


§4  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  HI 

GERVASE  (rising  and  going  to  table).  Please.  (To  MR.  ENOWLB.) 
Won't  you  have  this,  sir  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE  (moves  to  table).  No,  thank  you.  (GERVASE  goee 
back  to  his  former  place.)  I  have  a  special  cup.  (He  takes  a  large 
cup  from  MELISANDE).  A  family  tradition,  Mr.  Mallory.  But 
whether  it  is  that  I  am  supposed  to  require  more  nourishment  than 
the  others  (takes  cake),  or  that  I  can't  be  trusted  with  anything 
breakable,  History  does  not  relate.  (Moves  over  to  sofa  R.) 

GERVASE  (laughing).  Well,  I  think  you're  lucky.  I  like  a  big 
cup. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (turning).    Have  mine. 

GERVASE.    No,  thanks. 

BOBBY  (coming  in  through  the  windows  B.O.).  Hallo  I  Tea  ? 
(Goes  to  behind  R.  sofa). 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Ah,  Bobby,  you're  just  in  time.  (To  GERVASE.) 
This  is  Mr.  Coote.  Bobby,  this  is  Mr.  Mallory. 

(They  nod  to  each  other  and  say,  "  How-do-you-do  ?  ") 

MELISANDE  (indicating  a  teat  next  to  her).  Come  and  sit  here, 
Bobby. 

BOBBY  (who  was  making  for  JANE).  Oh — er — righto.  (He  moves  to 
and  sits  in  chair  c.) 

MR.  KNOWLE  (to  GERVASE).  And  how  did  the  dance  go  last 
night? 

JANE.    Oh,  were  you  at  a  dance  !    How  lovely  1 

MELISANDE.    Dance  ? 

MR.  KNOWLE.  And  a  fancy  dress  dance,  too,  Sandy.  You 
ought  to  have  been  there. 

(GERVASE  looks  at  MELISANDE.) 

MELISANDE  (understanding).    Ah ! 

MRS.  KNOWLE.    My  daughter  is  devoted  to  dancing,  Mr.  Mallory. 
Dances  so  beautifully,  they  all  say. 
BOBBY.    Where  was  it  ? 
GERVASE.    Collingham. 

(MRS.  KNOWLB  gives  back  "her  cup.) 

MB.  KNOWLE.  And  did  they  all  fall  in  love  with  you  ?  Ton 
ought  to  have  seen  him,  Sandy. 

GERVASE.    Well,  I'm  afraid  I  never  got  there. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Dear,  dear.  .  .  .  Peters  is  in  love  just  now.  .  .  . 
I  hope  he  didn't  give  you  cider  in  mistake  for  petrol. 

GERVASE.    No,  it  wasn't  that.    I  lost  my  way. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (pleased).    You  have  a  car,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE.    Yes.    Nothing  very  much,  you  know. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  Ah !  (To  MELISANDE.)  Won't  Mr.  Mallory 
have  some  more  tea,  Sandy !  (MRS.  KNOWLE  takes  cup  from 
GJBBVASB.) 


ACT  III.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  63 

MELISANDE.     Will  you  nave  some  more  tea,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 
GEBVASE.    Thank  you.    (To  MRS.  KNOWLB.)    Won't  you— — 

(HA  begins  to  get  up.) 

MBS.  KNOWLB.  Please  don't  trouble.  I  never  have  more  than 
one  cup.  Dr.  Anderson  is  very  firm  about  that.  Only  one  cup, 
Mrs.  Knowle. 

BOBBY  (rising  and  taking  a  plate  from  the  stand.  To  MELISANDE). 
Sandwich  ?  Oh,  you're  busy.  Sandwich,  Jane  ? 

JANE  (talcing  one).    Thank  you. 

BOBBY  (to  GEBVASE).    Sandwich  I 

GEBVASE.    Thank  you. 

{MELISANDE  hands  GEBVASB'S  cup  to  MBS.  KNOWLE.) 

BOBBY  (to  MB.  KNOWLE).    Sandwich  ? 

MB.  KNOWLE.  Thank  you,  Bobby.  Fortunately  nobody  minds 
»hat  /  eat  or  drink. 

BOBBY  (to  himself).  Sandwich,  Mr.  Coote  I  Thank  you.  (He 
takes  one  and  sits  c.  again.) 

MBS.  KNOWLE  (to  GEBVASE).  Being  such  an  invalid,  Mr.  Mallory, 
it  is  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  have  Melisande  to  look  after  the  house. 

GERVASE.    I  am  sure  it  is. 

MRS.  KNOWLB.     Of  course,  I  can't  expect  to  keep  her  for  ever. 

MELISANDE  (coldly).    More  tea,  Jane  ? 

JANE.     Thank  you,  dear.     (Crosses  to  behind  MELISANDE  at  table.) 

MBS.  KNOWLE.  It's  extraordinary  how  she  has  taken  to  it.  I 
must  say  that  I  do  like  a  girl  to  be  a  good  housekeeper.  Don't 
yeu  agree,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GEBVASB.  Well,  of  course,  all  that  sort  of  thing  w  rather  impor- 
tant. 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  That's  what  I  always  tell  Sandy.  "  Happiness 
begins  in  the  kitchen,  Sandy." 

MELISANDE.     I'm  sure  Mr.  Mallory  agrees  with  you,  Mother. 

GEBVASE  (laughing).  Well,  one  must  eat.  (JANE  goes  back  to 
her  former  place.) 

BOBBY  (rising  and  passing  plate).    Have  another  sandwich  I 

GEBVASE  (taking  one).    Thanks. 

(BOBBY  sits  again.) 

MBS.  KNOWLE.    Do  you  live  in  the  neighbourhood,  Mr.  Mallory  ? 
GERVASE.     About  twenty  miles  away.    Little  Mailing. 
JANE  (helpfully).     Oh,  yes. 

MBS.  KNOWLE.    Well,  I  hope  we  shall  see  you  here  again. 
GEBVASE.    That's  very  kind  of  you  indeed.    I  shall  love  to 
come. 

MELISANDE.    More  tea.  Father  ? 
MB.  KNOWLE.    No,  tnank  you,  my  lovt. 
MELISANDE.    More  tea,  Mr.  Mallory  ! 


56  THE   ROMANTIC   AGE.  [Aov  III. 

GERVASU.    No,  thank  you. 

MR.  KNOWLE  (getting  up).  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you,  Mr.  Mallory, 

but  if  you  have  really  finished (He  move*  up  to  the  window  R.O. 

and  puts  his  cup  on  the  cabinet  up  c.) 

GERVASE  (getting  up).  Right.  (MRS.  KNOWLB  takes  his  cup  and 
passes  it  to  BOBBY.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE.  You  won't  go  without  seeing  the  garden,  Mr. 
Mallory  ?  (As  GERVASE  moves  up  c.)  Sandy,  when  your  father 
has  finished  with  Mr.  Mallory,  you  must  show  him  the  garden. 
We  are  very  proud  of  our  roses,  Mr.  Mallory.  Melisande  takes  a 
great  interest  in  the  roses. 

GERVASE.  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  the  garden.  Shall  I 
Bee  you  again,  Mrs.  Knowle.  .  .  .  Don't  get  up,  please. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (getting  up).  In  case  we  don't  (She  holds 

out  her  hand.) 

GERVASE  (c.,  sJiaking  it).    Good-bye.    And  thank  you  so  much. 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (L.C.).    Not  good-bye.    Au  revoir. 

GERVASE  (smiling).  Thank  you.  (With  a  bow  to  JANE  and  BOBBY.) 
Good-bye,  in  case 

BOBBY.    Cheero. 

JANE.    Good-bye,  Mr.  Mallory. 

MR.  KNOWLE.  Well,  come  along.  (As  they  go  out.)  It  is  curious 
how  much  time  one  has  to  spend  in  saying  "  How-do-you-do  " 
and  "  Good-bye."  I  once  calculated  that  a  man  of  seventy  .  .  . 

(Ms.  KNOWLB  and  GERVASE  go  out  through  door  L.) 

MRS.  KNOWLE  (going  to  door  B.,  above  settee  B.).  Jane,  dear, 
would  you  mind  coming  with  me  to  the  drawing-room,  and  helping 
me  to — (looking  at  MELISANDE)  er 

JANE  (resigned).    Of  course,  Aunt  Mary. 

(They  go  towards  the  door.) 

BOBBY  (rises — his  mouth  full).    May  I  come  too,  Mrs.  Knowle  f 
MELISANDE.    You  haven't  finished  your  tea,  Bobby. 
BOBBY.     I  shan't  be  a  moment.     (He  picks  up  his  cup.) 
MRS.  KNOWLK.    Please  come,  dear  Mr.  Coote,  when  you  have 
finished. 

(MRS.  KNOWLE  goes  out  B.) 

(JANE  turns  at  the  door,  sees  that  MELISANDE  is  not  looking,  and  blow* 
a  hasty  kiss  to  BOBBY.) 

MELISANDB.    More  tea,  Bobby  I 

BOBBY.    No,  thanks. 

MELISANDE.    Something  more  to  eat? 

BOBBY.    No,  thanks.    (He  gets  up  and  walks  towards  the  door.) 

MELISANDE.    Bobby !    (Rises  and  comet  a) 

BOBBY  (turning).    Yet  f    (At  door  B.) 


Ao*  m.)  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  57 

MELISANDK.    There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  7011.    Don't 

g°- 

BOBBY.    Oh  !   Righto.    (He  comes  slowly  back  to  o.) 

MELISANDE  (with  difficulty,  after  a  pause).  I  made  a  mistake 
yesterday. 

BOBBY  (not  understanding).    A  mistake  f    Yesterday  I 

MELISANDE.    Yes.  .  .  .    You  were  quite  right. 

BOBBY.    How  do  you  mean  ?     When  ? 

MELISANDE.  When  you  said  that  girls  didn't  know  their  own 
minds. 

BOBBY.  Oh!  (With  an  awkward  laugh.)  Yes.  Well — er — I 
don't  expect  any  of  us  do,  really,  you  know.  I  mean — er — that  ifl 
to  say (Glancing  towards  door  B.) 

MELISANDE.  I'm  sorry  I  said  what  I  did  say  to  you  last  night, 
Bobby.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  all  those  things. 

BOBBY.    I  say,  that's  all  right.     (Backing  towards  door.) 

MELISANDE.  I  didn't  mean  them.  And — and,  Bobby — I  vd 
marry  you  if  you  like. 

BOBBY  (staggered,  now  by  the  door).    Sandy! 

MELISANDE.  And  it  was  silly  of  me  to  mind  your  calling  me 
Sandy,  and  to  say  what  I  did  about  your  clothes,  and  I  will  marry 
you,  Bobby.  And — and  thank  you  for  wanting  it  so  much. 

BOBBY  (coming  back  c.).    I  say,  Sandy.    I  say  I    I  say 

MELISANDE  (offering  her  cheek).  You  may  kiss  me  if  you  like, 
Bobby. 

BOBBY.  I  say !  .  .  .  Er — er—  (he  kisses  her  gingerly)  thanks ! 
.  .  .  Er — I  say 

MELISANDE.    What  is  it,  Bobby  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  you  know — (he  tries  again)  I  don't  want  you  to 
—to  feel  that — I  mean,  just  because  I  asked  you  twice — I  mean 
I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that — well,  I  mean  you  mustn't  do  it  just 
for  my  sake,  Sandy.  I  mean  Melisande. 

MELISANDE.    You  may  call  me  Sandy. 

BOBBY.    Well,  you  see  what  I  mean,  Sandy. 

MELISANDE.    It  isn't  that,  Bobby.    It  isn't  that. 

BOBBY.  You  know,  I  was  thinking  about  it  last  night — after- 
wards, you  know — and  I  began  to  see,  I  began  to  see  that  perhaps 
you  were  right.  I  mean  about  my  not  being  romantic  and — and 
ail  that.  I  mean,  I'm  rather  an  ordinary  sort  of  chap,  and— — 

MELISANDE  (sitting  on  sofa  B. — sadly).  We  are  all  rather  ordinary 
sort  of  chaps. 

BOBBY  (eagerly — sitting  beside  her).  No,  no.  No,  that's  when 
you're  wrong,  Sandy.  I  mean  Melisande.  You  aren't  ordinary. 
I  don't  say  you'd  be  throwing  yourself  away  on  me,  but — but  I 
think  you  could  find  somebody  more  suitable.  (Earnestly.)  I'm 
•ure  you  could.  I  mean  somebody  who  would  remember  to  call 
you  Melisande,  and  who  would  read  poetry  with  you  and— and  all 
that.  I  mean,  there  are  lots  of  fellows 


68  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Acr  IIL 

MELISANDB  (turning  to  him).  I  don't  understand.  Don't  you 
want  to  marry  me  now  ? 

BOBBY  (with  dignity).    I  don't  want  to  be  married  out  of  pity. 

MELISANDE  (coldly),    I  have  told  you  that  it  isn't  out  of  pity. 

BOBBY.  Well,  what  is  it  out  of  ?  I  mean,  after  what  you  said 
yesterday  about  my  tie,  it  can't  be  love. 

MELISANDE.  Are  you  under  the  impression  that  I  am  proposing 
to  you  1 

BOBBY  (taken  aback).    W-what? 

MELISANDB.  Are  you  flattering  yourself  that  you  are  refusing 
me  ? 

BOBBY.    I  say,  shut  up,  Sandy.    You  know  it  isn't  that  at  all. 

MELISANDE  (turning  from  him).  I  think  you  had  better  join  Jane, 
(Carelessly.)  It  is  Jane,  isn't  it  ? 

BOBBY.  I  say,  look  here (She  doesn't.)  Of  course,  I  know 

you  think  I'm  an  awful  rotter.  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  well — oh,  t  */*/ 

MELISANDE.    Jane  is  waiting  for  you. 

(MBS.  KNOWLE  comes  in  B.) 

MBS.  KNOWLE.    Oh,  Mr.  Coote,  Jane  is  waiting  for  you. 

BOBBY.    Oh — er 

MELISANDE.    Jane  is  waiting  for  you. 

BOBBY  (realizing  that  he  is  not  quite  at  his  best).  Er — oh — er, 
righto.  (He  goes  to  the  door  B.  and  hesitates  there.)  Er — (Noiv  if  he 
can  only  think  of  something  really  good,  he  may  yet  carry  it  off.)  Er — 
(something  really  witty) — er — er,  righto  !  (He  goes  out — to  join  JANE, 
who  is  waiting  for  him.) 

MBS.  KNOWLE  (moving  to  above  sofa  L.  and  speaking  in  a  soft,  gentle 
voice).  Where  is  your  father,  dear  ?  In  the  library  \vith  Mr. 
Mallory  !  .  .  .  I  want  to  speak  to  him.  Just  on  a  little  matter  of 
business.  ...  Dear  child  !  (She  touches  her  shoulder  over  the  sofa.) 

(She  goes  to  the  library.) 
MELISANDB.    Oh  I    How  horrible  I 

(She  walks  about,  pulling  at  her  handkerchief  and  telling  herself  that 
the  won't  cry.  But  she  feels  that  she  is  going  to,  and  she  goes  to  the 
open  windows  B.C.,  and  stands  for  a  moment  looking  out,  trying  to 
recover  herself.) 

(GEBVASE  comes  in  through  the  door  L.) 

GEBVASE  (gently).  Princess !  (She  hears ;  her  hand  closes  and 
tightens  ;  but  she  says  nothing.)  Princess  ! 

(With  tm  effort  she  controls  herself,  turns  round  and  speaks  coldly.) 

MELISANDE.    Please  don't  call  me  by  that  ridiculous  name, 
GEBVASE  (o.).    Melisande  1 
MELISANDE.    Nor  by  that  one. 


ACT  HI.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  69 

GERVASE.    Miss  Knowle. 

MELISANDE  (coming  down  a  little).  Yes  f  What  do  you  want, 
(facing  away  from  him)  Mr.  Mallory  ? 

GERVASE  (moving  to  her).    I  want  to  marry  you. 

MELISANDE  (taken  by  surprise).  Oh!  ...  (Turns).  How  dare 
you! 

GERVASB.    But  I  told  you  this  morning. 

MELISANDE  (turning  away  again).  I  think  you  had  better  leave 
this  morning  out  of  it. 

GEBVASE.  But  if  I  leave  this  morning  out  of  it,  then  I  have  only 
just  met  you. 

MELISANDE.    That  is  what  I  would  prefer. 

GERVASE.  Oh  !  .  .  .  Then  if  I  have  only  just  met  you,  perhaps 
I  oughtn't  to  have  said  straight  oil  that  I  want  to  marry 
you. 

MELISANDE.    It  is  unusual. 

GERVASE.    Yes.    But  not  unusual  to  want  to  marry  you. 

MELISANDE  (at  the  top  of  the  settee  R.).  I  am  not  interested  in 
your  wants. 

GERVASE.  Oh !  (Gently.)  I'm  sorry  that  we've  got  to  forget 
•bout  this  morning.  (Going  closer  to  her.)  Is  it  so  easy  to  forget^ 
Melisande  1 

MELISANDE.    Very  easy  for  you,  I  should  think. 

GERVASE.    But  not  for  you  ? 

MELISANDB  (bitterly  and  turning  quickly).  You  dress  up  and 
•muse  yourself,  and  then  laugh  and  go  back  to  your  ordinary  life 
again — you  don't  want  to  remember  that,  do  you,  every  time  you 
do  it! 

GERVASE.  You  let  your  hair  down  and  flirt  with  me  and  laugh 
•nd  go  home  again,  but  you  can't  forget.  Why  should  I  ? 

MELISANDE  (furiously).    How  dare  you  say  I  flirted  with  you  ! 

GERVASE.    How  dare  you  say  I  laughed  at  you  ? 

MELISANDE.  Do  you  think  I  knew  you  would  be  there  when  I 
went  up  to  the  wood  ? 

GERVASE.  Do  you  think  7  knew  you  would  be  there  when  / 
went  up  ? 

MELISANDB.  Then  why  were  you  there  all  dressed  up  lika 
that  ? 

GERVASB.  My  car  broke  down  and  I  spent  the  night  in  it.  I 
went  up  the  hill  to  look  for  breakfast. 

MELISANDB  (bitterly).    Breakfast !    That's  all  you  think  about. 

GERVASE  (cheerfully).    Well,  it's  always  cropping  up. 

MELISANDE  (in  disgust).  Oh !  (She  moves  away  from  him  R. 
and  then  turns  round  holding  out  her  hand.)  Good-bye,  Mr.  Mallory. 

GERVABB  (talcing  it).  Good-bye,  Miss  Knowle.  (She  turns — then 
A0  says  gently.)  May  I  kiss  your  hands,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDB  (pathetically).    Oh,  don't  1    (Sfo  hides  for  face  in 


90  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  [ACT  III. 

GERVASB.  Dear  hands.  .  .  .  May  I  kiss  your  lips,  Melisande  I 
(She  says  nothing.  He  comes  closer  to  her.)  Melisande  ! 

(He  is  about  to  put  his  arms  round  her,  but  she  breaks  away  from  him.) 

MELISANDE.  Oh,  don't,  don't !  (Grossing  quickly  L.)  What's 
the  good  of  pretending  ?  It  was  only  pretence  this  morning — what's 
the  good  of  going  on  with  it  ?  I  thought  you  were  so  different  from 
other  men,  but  you're  just  the  same,  just  the  same.  You  talk  about 
the  things  they  talk  about,  you  wear  the  clothes  they  wear.  You 
were  my  true  knight,  my  fairy  Prince,  this  morning,  and  this  after- 
noon you  come  down  dressed  like  that  (she  waves  her  hand  at  it) 
and  tell  me  that  you  are  on  the  Stock  Exchange  !  Oh,  can't  you 
see  what  you've  done  ?  All  the  beautiful  world  that  I  had  built 
up  for  you  and  me — shattered,  shattered.  (She  sits  down  on  the 
lower  end  of  the  sofa  L.) 

GEBVASE  (going  to  her).    Melisande ! 

MELISANDE.    No,  no ! 

GEBVASE  (stopping).    All  right. 

MELISANDE  (recovering  herself).    Please  go. 

GERVASE  (with  a  smile).    Well,  that's  not  quite  fair,  you  know. 

MELISANDE.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

GERVASB.  Well,  what  about  my  beautiful  world — the  world  that 
F  had  built  up  ? 

MELISANDE.    I  don't  understand. 

GERVASE.  What  about  your  pretence  this  morning  ?  I  thought 
you  were  so  different  from  other  women,  but  you're  just  the  same, 
just  the  same.  You  were  my  true  lady,  my  fairy  Princess,  this 
morning ;  and  this  afternoon  the  Queen,  your  mother,  disabled 
herself  by  indigestion,  tells  me  that  you  do  all  the  housekeeping 
for  her  just  like  any  ordinary  commonplace  girl.  Your  father,  the 
King,  has  obviously  never  had  a  battle-axe  in  his  hand  in  his  life ; 
your  suitor,  Prince  Robert  of  Coote,  is  much  more  at  home  with  a 
niblick  than  with  a  lance ;  and  your  cousin,  the  Lady  Jane 

MELISANDE  (burying  her  head  in  a  cushion).    Oh,  cruel,  cruel ! 

GERVASE  (remorsefully).  Oh,  forgive  me,  Melisande.  It  wai 
horrible  of  me.  (Sits  by  her.) 

MELISANDE.  No,  but  it's  true.  How  could  any  romance  come 
into  this  house  ?  (Turning  to  him.)  Now  you  know  why  I  wanted 
you  to  take  me  away — away  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with  you. 

GERVASE.    Well,  that's  what  I  want  to  do. 

MELISANDE  (turning  away).  Ah,  don't  I  When  you're  on  the 
Stock  Exchange  1 

GERVASE.  But  there's  plenty  of  romance  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 
(Nodding  his  head.)  Oh,  yes,  you  want  to  look  out  for  it. 

MELISANDE  (reproachfully).    Now  you're  laughing  at  me  again. 

GERVASE.  My  dear,  I'm  not.  Or  if  I  am  laughing  at  you,  then 
I  am  laughing  at  myself  too.  And  if  we  can  laugh  together,  then 
we  can  be  happy  together,  Melisande. 


m.]  THE  ROMANTIC  AGE.  61 

MELISANDB.  I  want  romance,  I  want  beauty.  I  don't  want 
jokes. 

GERVASE.  I  see  what  it  is.  (Rises  and  goes  o.)  You  don't  like 
my  knickerbockers. 

MELISANDE  (bewildered).    Did  you  expect  me  to  f 

GERVASE  (o.).  No.  (After  a  pause.)  I  think  that's  why  I  put 
*em  on.  (She  looks  at  him  in  surprise!)  You  see,  we  had  to  come 
back  to  the  twentieth  century  some  time ;  we  couldn't  go  on  pre- 
tending for  ever.  Well,  here  we  are — (indicating  his  clothes) — back. 
But  I  feel  just  as  romantic,  Melisande.  I  want  beauty — your  beauty 
—just  as  much.  (He  goes  to  her  and  sits  beside  her.) 

MELISANDE.  Which  Melisande  do  you  want  ?  The  one  who 
talked  to  you  this  morning  in  the  wood,  or  the  one  who — (bitterly) 
does  all  the  housekeeping  for  her  mother  I  (Violently.)  And  badly, 
badly,  badly  I 

GERVASE.  The  one  who  does  all  the  housekeeping  for  her  mother 
—and  badly,  badly,  badly,  Hess  her,  because  she  has  never  realized 
what  a  gloriously  romantic  thing  housekeeping  is. 

MELISANDE  (amazed).    Romantic  1 

GERVASE  (with  enthusiasm).  Most  gloriously  romantic.  .  .  . 
Did  you  ever  long  when  you  were  young  to  be  wrecked  on  a  desert 
island  ? 

MELISANDB.    Oh,  yes! 

GERVASE.  You  imagined  yourself  there — alone  or  with  a  com- 
panion 1 

MELISANDB.    Often ! 

GERVASE.  And  what  were  you  doing  ?  What  is  the  romanc< 
of  the  desert  island  which  draws  us  all  ?  Climbing  the  bread-fruit 
tree,  following  the  turtle  to  see  where  it  deposits  its  eggs,  discovering 
the  spring  of  water,  building  the  hut — housekeeping,  Melisande.  .  .  . 
Or  take  Robinson  Crusoe.  When  Man  Friday  came  along  and  left 
his  footprint  in  the  sand,  why  did  Robinson  Crusoe  stagger  back 
in  amazement  ?  Because  he  said  to  himself,  like  a  good  house- 
keeper, "  By  Jove,  I'm  on  the  track  of  a  servant  at  last."  There'i 
romance  for  you  I 

MELISANDE  (smiling  and  shaking  her  head  at  him).  What  nonsense 
you  talk  1 

GERVASB.  It  isn't  nonsense;  indeed,  indeed  it  isn't.  There's 
romance  everywhere  if  you  look  for  it.  You  look  for  it  in  the  old 
fairy-stories,  but  did  they  find  it  there  !  Did  the  gentleman  who 
had  just  been  given  a  new  pair  of  seven-league  boots  think  it  romantic 
to  be  changed  into  a  fish  !  He  probably  thought  it  a  confounded 
nuisance,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  to  do  with  his  boots.  Did 
Cinderella  and  the  Prince  find  the  world  romantic  after  they  were 
married  f  Think  of  the  endless  silent  evenings  which  they  spent 
together,  with  nothing  in  common  but  an  admiration  for  Cinderella's 
feet — do  you  think  they  didn't  long  for  the  romantic  days  of  old  t 
And  in  two  thousand  or  two  hundred  thousand  years,  people  will 


ft  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  [Ac*  HI. 

read  stories  about  us,  and  sigh  and  say,  "  Will  those  romantic  days 
never  come  back  again  1  "  Ah,  they  are  here  now,  Melisande,  for 
its  ;  for  the  people  with  imagination ;  for  you  and  for  me. 

MELISANDB.    Are  they  ?     Oh,  if  I  could  believe  they  were ! 

GERVASB.  You  thought  of  me  as  your  lover  and  true  knight 
this  morning.  Ah,  but  what  an  easy  thing  to  be !  You  were  my 
Princess.  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass — how  can  you  help  being 
a  princess  ?  But  if  we  could  be  companions,  Melicande  1  That's 
difficult ;  that's  worth  trying. 

MELISANDE  (gently).    What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? 

GERVASE.  Get  used  to  me.  See  me  in  a  top-hat — see  me  in  a 
bowler-hat.  Help  me  with  my  work ;  play  games  with  me — I'll 
teach  you  if  you  don't  know  how.  I  want  to  share  the  world  with 
you  for  all  our  lives.  That's  a  long  time,  you  know ;  we  can't  do 
it  on  one  twenty-minutes'  practice  before  breakfast.  We  can  be 
lovers  so  easily — can  we  be  friends  t 

MELISANDE  (looking  at  him  gravely).    You  are  very  wise. 

GERVASB.  I  talked  with  a  wise  man  in  the  wood  this  morning  j 
I've  been  thinking  over  what  he  said.  (Suddenly.)  But  when  you 
look  at  me  like  that,  how  I  long  to  be  a  fool  and  say  (taking  Tier  in 
his  left  arm)  "  Gome  away  with  me  now,  now,  now,"  you  wonderful, 
beautiful,  maddening  woman,  you  adorable  child,  you  funny  foolish 
little  girl.  (Holding  up  a  finger  and  touching  her  chin.)  Smile, 
Melisande.  Smile !  (Slowly,  reluctantly,  she  gives  him  a  smile.) 
I  suppose  the  fairies  taught  you  that.  Keep  it  for  me,  will  you — 
but  give  it  to  me  often.  Do  you  ever  laugh,  Melisande  ?  We 
must  laugh  together  sometimes — that  makes  life  so  easy. 

MELISANDE  (with  a  happy  little  laugh).  Oh,  what  can  I  say  to 
you  ? 

GERVASB  (taking  her  hands).  Say,  "  I  think  I  should  like  you  for 
a  companion,  Gervase." 

MELISANDE  (shyly).  I  think  I  should  like  you  for  a  companion, 
Gervase. 

GERVASB.    Say,  "  Please  come  and  see  me  again,  Gervase." 

MELISANDB  (softly).    Please  come  and  see  me  again,  Gervase. 

GERVASB  (jumping  up,  waving  his  hand  and  moving  o.).  Say, 
"  Hooray  for  things  !  " 

MELISANDB  (standing  up,  but  shyly  still).    Hooray  for  things) 

GERVASB.  Thank  you,  Melisande  ...  I  must  go.  (He  goes  to 
the  windows  B.C.,  then  comes  back,  bends  on  one  knee,  raises  her  hand 
on  his,  and  kisses  it.)  My  Princess  I 

(Then  GERVASE  goes  through  the  windows  j 

(MELISANDB  stays  there,  looking  after  him,  her  hand  to  her  cheek.  .  .  a 
But  one  cannot  stand  thus  for  ever.  The  new  life  must  begin.  With 
•  little  smile  at  herself,  at  GERVASE,  at  things,  she  fetches  out  the 
cookery  book  from  a  drawer  in  the  cabinet  up  c.  and  comes  down  and 
eits  in  the  chair  o.  ,  ,  J 


ACT  m.J  THE   ROMANTIC  AGE.  «3 

MELISANDB    (reading).    To   make   Bread-Sauce.  .  .  .  Take    an 
onion,  peel  and  quarter  it,  and  simmer  it  in  milk.  .  .  . 

{But  you  know  how  the  romantic  passage  goes.  We  leave  her  with  ft, 
curled  up  in  the  chair,  this  adorable  child,  this  funny  foolish  liitle 
ftrJ.) 


tt*  OURTUIN  comet 


Farce  in  3  acts.  By  Leo  Ditriahstein.  7  males,  7  fe- 
males. Modern  costumes.  Plays  2^4  hours.  1  iaterior. 

"Are  You  a  Mason?"  is  one  of  those  delightful  farces  like 
"Charley's  Aunt"  that  aro  always  fresh.  "A  mother  and  a 
daughter,"  says  the  critic  of  the  New  York  Herald,  "had  hus- 
bands who  account  for  absences  from  the  joint  household  on 
frequent  evenings,  falsely  pretending  to  be  Masons.  The  men 
do  not  know  each  other's  duplicity,  and  each  tells  his  wife  of 
having  advanced  to  leadership  in  his  lodge.  The  older  woman 
was  so  well  pleased  with  her  husband's  supposed  distinction  ia 
the  order  that  she  made  him  promise  to  put  up  the  name  of  a 
visiting  friend  for  membership.  Further  perplexity  over  the 
principal  liar  arose  when  a  suitor  for  his  second  daughter's  hand 
proved  to  be  a  real  Mason.  ...  To  tell  the  story  of  the  play 
would  require  volumes,  its  complications  are  so  numerous.  It  is 
»  house  of  cards.  One  card  wrongly  placed  and  the  whole  thing 
v.-ould  collapse.  But  it  stands,  an  example  of  remarkable  in- 
genuity. You  wonder  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  how  the  fun 
can  be  kept  up  on  such  a  slender  foundation.  But  it  continues 
and  grows  to  the  last  curtain."  One  of  the  most  hilariously 
amusing  farces  ever  written,  especially  suited  to  schools  and 
Masonic  Lodges.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 


KEMPY 

A  delightful  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  J.  C.  Nugent  and 
Elliott  Nugent.  4  males,  4  females.  1  interior  througheut. 
Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2*£  hours. 

No  wonder  "Kempy"  has  been  such  a  tremendous  hit  in  New 
York,  Chicago — wherever  it  has  played.  It  snaps  with  wit  and 
humor  of  the  most  delightful  kind.  It's  electric.  It's  small- 
town folk  perfectly  pictured.  Full  of  types  of  varied  sorts,  each 
one  done  to  a  turn  and  served  with  zestful  gauee.  An  ideal 
entertainment  for  amusement  purposes.  The  story  is  about  a  high- 
falutin'  daughter  who  in  a  fit  of  pique  mames  the  young  plumber- 
architect,  who  comes  to  fix  the  water  pipes,  just  because  he 
"understands"  her,  having  read  her  book  and  having  sworn  to 
marry  the  authoress.  But  in  that  story  lies  all  the  humor  that 
kept  the  audience  laughing  every  second  of  every  act.  Of  course 
there  are  lots  of  ramifications,  each  of  whieh  bears  its  own  brand 
of  laughter-making  potentials.  But  the  plot  and  the  story  are 
not  the  main  things.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  work  of  the 
company.  The  fun  growing  out  of  this  family  mixup  i-s  lively  and. 
clean.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Gents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  Chy 
Out  New  Descriptive  Catalogue  Sent  Free  on  Request 


A    000112101     1 

ARE  YOU  A  MASON? 

Farce  in  3  acts.  By  Leo  Ditrichstein.  7  males,  7  f» 
males.  Modern  costumes.  Plays  2*4  hours.  1  interior. 

"Are  You  a  Mason?"  is  one  of  those  delightful  farces  liko 
"Charley's  Aunt"  that  are  always  fresh.  "A  mother  and  a 
daughter,"  Bays  the  critic  of  the  New  York  Herald,  "had  hus- 
bands who  account  for  absences  from  the  joint  household  on 
frequent  evenings,  falsely  pretending  to  be  Masons.  The  men 
do  not  know  each  other's  duplicity,  and  each  tells  his  wife  of 
having  advanced  to  leadership  in  his  lodge.  The  older  woman 
•was  BO  well  pleased  with  her  husband's  supposed  distinction  in 
the  order  that  she  made  him  promise  to  put  up  the  name  of  a 
•visiting  friend  for  membership.  Further  perplexity  over  the 
principal  liar  arose  when  a  suitor  for  his  second  daughter's  hand 
proved  to  be  a  real  Mason.  ...  To  tell  the  story  of  the  play 
•would  require  volumes,  its  complications  are  so  numerous.  It  ia 
•  house  of  cards.  One  card  wrongly  placed  and  the  whole  thing 
would  collapse.  But  it  stands,  an  example  of  remarkable  in- 
genuity. You  wonder  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  how  the  fun 
can  be  kept  up  on  such  a  slender  foundation.  But  it  continues 
•nd  grows  to  the  last  curtain."  One  of  the  most  hilariously 
amusing  farces  ever  written,  especially  suited  to  schools  and 
Masonic  Lodges.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cent*, 


KEMPY 

fK  delightful  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  J.  C.  Nugent  and 
Elliott  Nugent.  4  males,  4  females.  1  interior  throughout. 
Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

No  wonder  "Kempy"  has  been  such  a  tremendous  hit  in  New 
York,  Chicago — wherever  it  has  played.  It  snaps  with  wit  and 
humor  of  the  most  delightful  kind.  It's  electric.  It's  small- 
town folk  perfectly  pictured.  Full  of  types  of  varied  sorts,  each 
one  done  to  a  turn  and  served  with  zestful  sauce.  An  ideal 
entertainment  for  amusement  purposes.  The  story  is  about  a  high- 
falutin'  daughter  who  in  a  fit  of  pique  marries  the  young  plumber- 
architect,  who  comes  to  fix  the  water  pipes,  just  because  he 
"understands"  her,  having  read  her  book  and  having  sworn  to 
marry  the  authoress.  But  in  that  story  lies  all  the  humor  that 
kept  the  audience  laughing  every  second  of  every  act.  Of  course 
there  are  lots  of  ramifications,  each  of  which  bears  its  own  brand 
of  laughter-making  potentials.  But  the  plot  and  the  story  are 
not  the  main  things.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  work  of  the 
company.  The  fun  growing  out  of  this  family  mixup  is  lively  and 
clean.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cent*. 


_  SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
~  Ow  New  Descriptive  Catalogue  Sent  Free  an  R«)«j«efS 


FRENCH'S! 
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G«org«  M.  Cohan 

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